Blueprints & Wildflowers

 

She held the newspaper with one hand and pinched her lower lip with the other.  Her eyes jumped from photo to text, photo to text.  With two fingers she anticipated turning the page.  Her eyes moved slowly down the newspaper. She never turned the page.

She doesn’t see him take this short video.  He leaves the camera sitting on the ground, capturing these thirty seconds of her while they sat in the park.

“There’s an article on the downtown rehabilitation here,” she says.  He stops the camera.

“Is there?  About what?”

“Luxury apartments.”

“Sounds interesting,” he says and coyly slips his camera back into his bag.

He’s afraid she might die someday and so he has begun to chronicle her.  He takes photos and videos and files away his favorite phrases.  When she does die he plans to spend months pouring over these memories.  He’ll curl up in bed and watch this video over and over again and he’ll remember the touch of those graceful fingers, her peaceful repose, and the gait of her darting eyes.

“Do you ever read the newspaper?” she asks.

“Sometimes, I suppose.”

He will read the newspaper everyday from then on.

 

~

 

She’s still foreign to him.  He imagines her skin is without blemish and believes her character is unparalleled.  He lies in bed with her and surveys her body--the long valley of her spine, the soft skin of her hip, and the gentle undulation of the vessels running through her neck.  Her hand rests innocently on his wrist.  He imagines she can feel his pulse through the skin and he tries to slow his heartbeat so that it matches hers.

When she leaves he begins to plan out what he will explore the next time she lays next to him.  He remembers how she smiled when he rubbed her nose with his and plans to do it again.  He files away a new favorite phrase--“I think I’m getting addicted to you”--and he watches the video again.

She held the newspaper with one hand and pinched her lower lip with the other.  She breathed slowly, a mark of her serenity.  Her eyes jumped from photo to text, photo to text.  She imagined her own articles on the page.  She became a great of journalists.  With two fingers she anticipated turning the page.  Her eyes moved slowly down the newspaper. She never turned the page.

 

~

 

“How can you hate wild flowers?” she asks.

“I don’t know . . . they’re just too . . .”

“Too what?”  She asks, smiling in anticipation of his answer.  It’s an unabashed smile, unguarded and unembarrassed.  He admires her for that.  He’ll tell her someday when they’re lying in a hammock, rocking slowly in the ocean breeze.  He should really plan a trip to somewhere where they have hammocks, somewhere warm.  She’ll be happy then and she’ll smile without embarrassment.

“They’re just too wild,” he answers.  “They have no structure.”

 

~

 

She talks to him about spontaneity and he decides he’ll surprise her with a new flowerbed after they get married--wild flowers, her favorite.  Maybe he’ll plan an unexpected trip into the city, maybe they’ll go next weekend.  He will be the king of spontaneity then.

“So when will I see you again?” he asks.

“Umm . . . well, how about this.  Whenever you miss me you give me a call.”

“Alright,” he says.  He plans to call her on Tuesday at 8 PM.

 

~

 

She held the newspaper with one hand and pinched her lower lip with the other.  She breathed slowly, a mark of her serenity.  Her eyes jumped from photo to text, photo to text.  She imagined her own articles on the page.  She became a great of journalists and went to big parties, but she always brought her screenwriting boyfriend.  She watched him from across the room and smiled.

With two fingers she anticipated turning the page.  Her eyes moved slowly down the newspaper. She never turned the page.

 

~

 

He puts Norah Jones on.  It’s her favorite and will surely steady her wavering heart. 

“I don’t know, Fred, it’s just . . .” Her eyes avoid his and she sits on the edge of the couch.  “I can’t really explain why.”

He’s changes the track to something more melancholy--Come Away With Me.  He’ll listen to this song on repeat for several days.  He’ll walk around for hours and serendipitously get caught in the rain.  He will get very sick and lose weight and find joy in nothing.  Food will taste like ash and alcohol will no longer cheer him up. 

“I’m sorry Fred,” she says and gets up to leave.

He’s already reforming their path.  They’ll have a friendly dinner late one night and they’ll be the only ones in the restaurant.  He’ll talk passionately of his new screenplay and she’ll think he never sounded so happy before.  At the bar afterwards he’ll give her quiet glances.  When it’s late he’ll put Norah Jones on the jukebox.  And when someday he gives a toast at their rehearsal dinner he’ll tell the story of their temporary parting, his persistent hope, and the cherished memory of their spontaneous reunion.  She will cry a little and kiss him when he’s done with the toast.

“Are you OK Fred?” she asks.

“Well . . . no, but . . . but I suppose there’s not really much I can do, is there?”

She shakes her head.

 

~

 

The nights are hardest for him.  He remembers the weight of her body on the mattress next to him.  He had barely begun to explore her skin before it was forbidden of him.  He had such plans for that skin--trails of kisses leading from her ear to the clavicle, light scratches which would leave fleeting streaks of red--and someday he’ll tell her all these things. 

Once she comes back to his bed he’ll hold her close and kiss her soft and tell her about how miserable he was without her.  She will comfort him and make him look her in the eyes and she will say, ‘I love you, dear’. 

 

~

 

She held the newspaper with one hand and pinched her lower lip with the other.  One night he bit her lip too hard in fit of passion and she yelled at him, but he took good care of her.  She loved him even more after that.

She breathed slowly, a mark of her serenity.  Her eyes jumped from photo to text, photo to text.  She imagined her own articles on the page.  She became a great of journalists and went to big parties, but she always brought her screenwriting boyfriend.  She watched him from across the room and smiled.

One day, when he had become famous, she had to interview him and they pretended they’d never met and laughed all through the interview.

With two fingers she anticipated turning the page.  Her eyes moved slowly down the newspaper. She never turned the page.

 

~

 

Norah Jones plays on the juke box and he lets his hand brush against hers.

She walks home with him, clutching his arm and leaning against his shoulder.  She tells herself she’s just staying warm.

He plays Norah Jones again when they get to his house and goes to the kitchen to get the expensive bottle of wine, the one he saved for her return.

She sees a video on his computer.  A video of her.

He drops the wine glasses and rushes to the computer. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

“Wait, what is it,” she asks and tries to keep him from closing it.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t mind.  I just want to see--”

“No,” he says and pushes her hand away from the mouse.

“Fred . . . I’m not going to--”

He doesn’t mean to push her so hard.  He’s drunk and upset.  She falls, but not hard.  She doesn’t hurt herself and he wants to help her up, but he has to keep the video hidden. 

He wants to stop her from gathering her things, but he has to protect the video.

He wants to run down the street after her, but he doesn’t.  He sits alone and watches the video.

 

~

 

He’s going to think of her when he’s on his death bed.  He’s sure of this.

He’ll get married, of course, but he’ll hate his wife for not joining him in the hammock on their trip to Florida.  He’ll hate her olive skin because it doesn’t allow the fleeting red marks his fingernails leave.  He’ll resent his children for not having graceful hands.  And he’ll wake up at night, tip toe to his computer, and replay these thirty seconds of her.

She held the newspaper with one hand and pinched her lower lip with the other.  One night he bit her lip too hard in fit of passion and she yelled at him, but he took good care of her.  She loved him even more after that.

She breathed slowly, a mark of her serenity.  She carried that serenity all throughout life.  She was always more patient with the children than he was.  They loved her more and he was jealous, but she always reassured him.  She made his favorite dinner and let the dog sleep in their bed and let him leave a trail of kisses from her ear to her clavicle.

Her eyes jumped from photo to text, photo to text.  She imagined her own articles on the page.  She became a great of journalists and went to big parties, but she always brought her screenwriting boyfriend.  She watched him from across the room and smiled.

One day, when he had become famous, she had to interview him and they pretended they’d never met and laughed all through the interview.

With two fingers she anticipated turning the page.  She almost lost one of those fingers on a Florida beach when he dared her to touch the beached shark.  She laughed when it snapped at her, an unabashed, unembarrassed laugh.  That night they laid in a hammock and he told her how much he had missed her when she broke up with him.  She told him she would never leave him again.

Her eyes moved slowly down the newspaper. She never turned the page.

Reviews

[Hedra Helix]

I liked it over all. the first couple sentences were rough for me- just for me- because I instantly look for unhindered flow rather than substance which it later reveals itself as.
As usuall, as I kept reading, your voice came out and stongly too and then I think it turned into something very distinct and interesting in the sense that all your work does, melancholy and delicate from a romantic quirky mind, -my over all view again.
Besides those first sentences I really liked the progression of the rest of it, your word choices and your tense choices.

The only part where I wondered was here in this section: Norah Jones plays on the juke box and he lets his hand brush against hers.

She walks home with him, clutching his arm and leaning against his shoulder. She tells herself she's just staying warm.

In this paragraph above the timeline of the story was a bit confusing for a sec, unclear as to wether they had reunited after all or if it was his imagination taking over in a leadership role.
In the coming passages though, I felt it resolved itself, and getting more dreamlike it ceased to matter.

I went with it.

here , I believe it is the 3rd use of the paragraph...
She held the newspaper with one hand and pinched her lower lip with the other. She breathed slowly, a mark of her serenity. Her eyes jumped from photo to text, photo to text. She imagined her own articles on the page. She became a great of journalists and went to big parties, but she always brought her screenwriting boyfriend. She watched him from across the room and smiled.

With two fingers she anticipated turning the page. Her eyes moved slowly down the newspaper.

She never turned the page.

[Leaona]

Good day to you author,

I'm a concept artist and an animator who loves visual storytelling and animating spectacular animations, and I was really impressed by your work on this story/fic. I’d love to work together in a paid collaboration and create arts and animations inspired by your amazing stories.

If you're on social media, I'd be happy to connect. Here are my handles:
Discord: leaonacolin10_56838
Gmail : [email protected]

Looking forward to hearing from you!

Best regards,
Leaona

[Laura]

Like the previous reviewer, I felt the first couple of lines to be jolting. I found your structure interesting and while the beginning dragged a bit for me, I found the pace of the last 1/3 exciting which may be lost if the beginning is condensed. I also liked that what started off as as a concrete, tangible relationship becomes a more ethereal tale of love lost by the end. I did have a hard time connecting to the characters at first, and it wasn't until she left that I became invested.

Very enjoyable read! Thanks for sharing!

[Tygerkong]

I think I'm in love with a the cow... It's so good

[Rebecca]

really poetic story. could become a novel if you want. I sense that the narrator is immortal (vampire? elf? archangel? faerie?) dating a "human" who has a wilderness of wild flowers in her heart. Keep working on these two characters. God deeper into the camera metaphor for capturing fleeting moments before they dissapear forever. Is Fred the narrator? That part confused me a little, I wasn't sure who the characters were, and didn't know the girl's name. In the beginning he cares about her and is scared he'll lose her and later in the story he doesn't care enough. Can be prologue for a long novel. :)

[Beautiful]

i love reading your story keep it up

[Luna Stormbreaker]

This I a really good story. I really liked the wording you used. I was confused around the first part but I understood it after a little while

[Essa G]

I really liked this story and the way you sort of put an individual story of its own in the italics, and kept adding to it as the story went on.
A great piece! :)

[Shane Mohamed]

Nicely done. Excellent word choice.

[ChrisM]

Wow! What a wonderful read! It held me hypnotically right from the beginning. The structure is new to me but the more enjoyable for that. I found the repetitions intriguing, wanting to know what would be added. There is an ambiguity as to which is real but I think that reflects the ambiguity of our own lives. It's wondrous what can be accomplished with a bit of denial. Great work.

[therin]

I really enjoyed the flow of the writing. I think the repetition of the original paragraph helped frame his fixation with her, helped us understand how planned and almost contrived the whole relationship was for him. Planned spontaneity? perfect.

And to write a character who allows his obsession to take hold, even as the object is standing right there - talking to him!

You captured beautifully how he was in love with the idea of her and never really knew her at all.

Thank you.