Child Of Darkness

For a while, you let him browse, busying yourself with the bouquet you’ve been binding, a final mix of ferns and aspidistra leaves to frame your newest art piece. You follow the sound of his steps in your mind, know when he lingers at the white roses, runs a finger across the artful petals of a dahlia flower and follows the endless vines of your favorite pothos.

You snip off a string of twine and tie it all together with a neat bow, placing it in the closest vase. Then, your eyes fall back on him. He’s closer now, hands shoved into the torn pockets of his jeans, staring at a few candles you keep in stock because a friend of yours makes them, simple beeswax and pretty patterns.

“Can I help you?” you ask eventually and his eyes snap towards you as if he forgot you were there to begin with. Several beats pass before he slowly nods, taking a step into your direction.

“Looking for something to put on a grave.”

Oh. You brush your hands against the apron you wear and round the counter.

“My condolences,” you start but he just waves off as if it’s unnecessary. You don’t question it. Instead, you come to a halt beside him, try to see what caught his eye.

“Are you thinking about planting it in soil or rather, a bouquet?”

He shrugs and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. “Just something to let him know I haven’t forgotten him.”

“A recent loss?”

“No.”

The most obvious choice would be roses, white or dark red, maybe both, a mix of pistachio leaves and some ornamental grass. Despite knowing better, he intrigues you and so, you keep asking.

“Family or friend?”

“Family.”

Despite the one-word answers, he entertains your questions, eyes glued to the marbled pothos leaves.

Roses would be too easy, you decide. Too easy for a man like him, towering beside you, curious hair color and strange ink on his face. You like the way he doesn’t seem to care about what other’s think. And since you’ve always loved a challenge and to tell stories with your flowers, you try to match him with what you pick.

“Were you close?”

That takes a while to verify an answer. His eyes dart around a bit before they settle on your dirty hands, stained green from the stems you’ve cut, band aids where thorns have pricked you.

“Twins…”

The physical ache in your heart is real, so is the flicker of something like pain in his eyes before he turns his head to the side and wanders over to the row of assorted flowers. You follow, try to fight for composure, try not to reach out to him, to console where he doesn’t want it. So, you do the only thing that’s left.

“White often holds the meaning of innocence, faith but also sorrow,” Carefully, you pull a calla lily out of it’s bucket.

“Dark red symbolizes lasting love and mourning,” one of the dark red roses wanders into your hands, one of it’s thorns digging into your soft skin and you try not to flinch.

“Carnations—“ you wander down the aisle to where the multicolored and variegated flowers stand, buckets with tulips and carnations in all sort of combinations. One of the white ones with a red rim catches your eye and you pull it from the bucket. “— hold a variety of meanings, especially since they come in color combinations.”

You twirl the flower in your hands, the thin petals fluttering with the movement.

“Love, remembrance, loyalty but also farewell.”

Carefully, you scan his face for any hint of what he might be thinking but all you catch is a muscle fluttering at his throat.

Holding out the three flowers, you try to show them to him.

“Any speaking to you? Any you like?”

His dark eyes muster each flower before he points at the red-trimmed carnation.

“Full bouquet or are you thinking more of a single flower?”

If you would have to guess, he seems more like the single flower type - nothing extra, nothing pompous.

“One of those…,” he mutters and points once again at the bicolor carnation.

You offer him more, the whole bouquet to pick the one he likes best but he’s undeterred and keeps pointing at the one you already have in hand.

Gently, you place the rose and the lily back into their place down the line and wander over to your counter.

“Decorative green?”

Quickly, you whip up a bit of ivy and decorative leaves, bundle it all together and hold it out to him.

“Nah, just this one…” despite his preference, you remove all but one of the green leaves, showing it again. “Like this maybe?” He gives in, nods and lets you tie it up. Instead of twine, you choose black lace, tie a neat little bow to keep it all together.

He’s followed you to the counter, one arm leaning against the wooden surface as he watches you work. Tendons and muscles flex as he shifts, thin lined scars criss-cross his skin, some darker, deeper ones that seem to have barely healed, circular and strange. The skin there is reddish, stretches like burned tissue.

“First time coming here?” you ask in an attempt to make conversation, eyes dancing up to his face.

“Just here for a visit…”

Eyes flickering down to your fingers, you grin as you say your next words. “Enjoy your stay in Tokyo then…”

“Nah just—“ he hesitates for a moment before offering you more information. “— not from this side of the city.”

Naming the price, he hands the yen and a few extra coins over. “Keep the change.”

You hand over the carnation and feel the warmth of the coins in your palm. He must have held onto them for a while already, heating up the metal with his own skin.

When he’s almost at the door, you call after him.

“You know what else this flower symbolizes?” He turns, sharp features a glaring cut against the bright outside behind him.

“Hope.”

You imagine he smiles, face cast in shadow as his tattoos shift with the movement before he turns and leaves. Another chime of your door, another fresh breete of air rustling your flowers.