DWC Day 5: Shimmer
“Hells bells!”
Thil’s “flower guy” let out a low whistle as he stepped into the luxury apartment, minding the carpet of star jasmine that had crawled over the door mat.
It had gotten worse overnight.
The rich purple walls were turning green with broad leaves. Spindly vines and curled ferns curtained doorways and windows. The impatiens had seeded in the wallpaper in dots of white, pale pink and fuchsia.
“What have you been feeding them?!”
“Ham sandwiches and hot chips?” Thil shrugged his shoulders. “Honestly, I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Never seen anything quite like it–not outside a greenhouse or a jungle, anyway… Where’s your climate control grid?”
“Iiii think it’s through here?” Thil led him down the narrowing hall. “Mind that root by the bathroom door.”
The control box was behind a frosted glass pane etched with flowers and vines. Violet lights shimmered beneath the surface, flickering off and on in varying sequences. Thil tried to pay attention to the connections the fellow trailed his finger over, but a tickling at his ear proved an awful distraction. No matter how many times he brushed that damn fern aside…
“Well, I’m no expert, but everything looks normal at least as far as settings…? Nothing pointing to over watering or fertilizing and even then that shouldn’t make them grow–” the florist shrugged off a vine that had fallen over his shoulder like a convivial arm. “--like this.”
“Yeah, well, was a long shot I ‘spose,” Thil muttered, scratching at his ear.
“You should have an enchanter have a look,” he suggested, drawing a business card out from his vest pocket which Thil pinched between two fingers.
“You know a guy?”
“Oh no, but I do know some landscapers,” he nodded towards the card: Hearthwood & Sons -- Lawn & Garden. Right, because he could afford to have the house trimmed three times a day.
Thil tucked it in his shirt pocket with a sigh. “Yeah, sure, thanks.”
Thil escorted him out the door, grabbing his tie and keys off the coat rack as he went–he had another long night ahead of him, after all.
A fiddlehead unfurled its tendril in a romantic clasp of his shirt sleeve, ever so sad to see him go.
@daily-writing-challenge
