Yesterday’s Laundry
Oh, my peony…
Peonies are the best smelling flowers.
“Oh, my peony, how lovely you smell; but when you dry, you’re oh so fragile. I touched you and you crumbled under little to no pressure.”
She continued. “The wind cannot be dear to you because it blows itself away. No cat should feed on the she-devil’s tit because she has too much food. The hedonists should sleep, the tired should cry, and everyone else should stop asking fucking questions.”
He told her she might as well get “whims” tattooed on her forehead. “Maybe I will,” she replied. “My bangs would hide it, anyways.”
His brain contains a touch of the idiot—only a touch, but the kind of touch that sends a shiver down your spine. At least his fingers can do the same.
It’s silly to treat a woman as an angel and expect her to forget her role. One is as it does. But how does a peony smell so sweet yet taste so God damn bitter?
“Then get a neck tattoo.”
“I’m not a fan of trigger warnings.”
“You don’t say.”
“What have you learned from me, my dear?” she asked. “There surely must be something. While they may have gone right over your head, I tried to teach you lessons… like how you’re better off being supple than making yourself hard and cold... A hammer does so much more damage to a hardwood floor than to a trampoline, you see? A soft heart keeps you safer than you think. Huh… you must’ve learned this lesson, because I’ve bounced and bounced and bounced.”
“You like to be loved,” he said to her. The accusation in this statement was palpable to the touch.
“Who doesn’t?” she replied.
“That’s a good question.”
Her question was much less rhetorical than it may have sounded—for the rest of the day it hung in her head like yesterday’s laundry: dry, but not yet folded.
“Do you want to play a game?”
“What does the winner get?”
He thought it was very funny that she asked about the reward before she even knew the rules.
“The winner will impress the one they beat.”
She smirked. “Only if it’s an interesting game.”
