Chapter Text
Hibiscus
There are three things one can notice when entering Heather's apartment.
One: the walls are tall, lean, and elegantly monochrome. Black and white, with a single punch of red in the heart of the living room. Just like Heather herself.
Two: the furniture is mostly made of steel, or leather, sophisticated rather than practical, luxury over function. Just like Heather herself.
Three: there is not a single surface not covered by plants and flowers. Just like Heather –
Wait.
If one asked Heather if she liked flowers, the answer would be quite definite. Her lips would purse in disgust. One of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows – curtesy of the best brow bar in the city – would travel all the way up, and her gaze underneath would be a mix of pity and a sense of superiority. Finally, the answer would appear. No, you romantic little fool, she doesn't like flowers. They are time-consuming. They attract bugs. They require a lot of effort and digging your fingernails in the dirt.
Heather doesn't like flowers.
Heather likes style – and that's what flowers give her.
And no, she will not go on a second date with you.
Flowers are not Heather's forte. Nothing colourful and delicate is. And yet, though she would never admit it, there is a thread of understanding there somewhere, extending from one stylishly unfinished clay pot to another, intertwining across the rooms, forming transparent spiderwebs. The tapestry formed from the crossways is a fragile thing, invisible in regular light. But it has her face. She holds the end of the thread in her fingers, whether she likes it or not.
Heather is tall, lean, and elegantly monochrome. She is a hibiscus, clean and perfect, with a red centre hidden at the core. Beautiful to look at, demanding to maintain, she stands out among the flowers in her apartment. She belongs to steel and leather, faring well against the background of stormy skies. Other plants need gentle showers, sunshine, and care. She provides them just that, with scorn painting her petals even brighter.
She never talks to her flowers. That would be simply too much.
*
Tulip and Hydrangea
The engagement ring is... rustic.
The band is uneven, the rose gold band clearly hand-carved, imitating tree bark. In the centre, an iridescent stone – an opal or a moonstone, it's hard to say – glows softly, milky sheen intertwining with blue hues. One could say it wouldn't fit with Courtney: with her grey dresses, her raw silver jewellery, with her straightened hair and freckles covered with a layer of BB cream. One could say Courtney being engaged is a fever dream, since Courtney doesn't care about anything that isn't Dow Incorporated and their chemical-infused legal adventures, working relentlessly day after day and coming home exhausted. One could say Courtney being engaged to an ex-convict who also happens to be her childhood sweetheart is even more ridiculous.
One could say Courtney from the picture isn't Courtney at all.
Heather likes the photo, of course. Still, it all feels so... alien.
In the picture, Courtney is presenting her ring with pride, a broad smile on her face, freckles dotted across the bridge of her nose, and a cloud of natural hair falling down her arms. Behind her, a background different than usual: pine trees and sun rays, flaring from between the branches. So different from the soft greys of her apartment in Alberta – the same apartment she left behind without a second thought, escaping to another province, discovering her love for nature, peace, and abandoned summer camps, like a confused romantic author straight from the nineteenth century.
Courtney from before is a tulip. A single colour, from top to bottom, with petals closed and guarded against the world. Courtney from the picture – Courtney from now and possibly on – is a different flower altogether. She is a hydrangea, Heather does not doubt it: bold and colourful, and open, with her cloud-like petals turning to the sun.
Between the tall, lean walls of her apartment, Heather has plenty of unusual plants. It is not uncommon to find a flower that changes its colour, its shape; there is white carnation which turns into any colour you tint its water source with. Tulips themselves tend to change their shade as they develop and mature, each colour transformation a milestone of their growth. But she has never seen one plant transform into another before.
She grins as she types out a comment. No diamond? Remember you can still leave him sis.
Not even fifteen minutes later, she gets a notification. Duncan responds with a single emoji, a pixelated middle finger being his only answer. She cannot help but cackle. He is a common weed, a creeping speedwell perhaps: resilient and unyielding, fighting for his existence no matter how many times you uproot him. Heather appreciates that.
The engagement ring is rustic – and these two are rustic, too: hidden in their backcountry like eremites, drunk on love, growing together in the unkempt garden, mismatched in colour but coexisting peacefully.
There is a style in rusticity, too, after all.
*
Caladium
Summer wedding sounds nice in theory, Heather finds. All that sun illuminating the island, sending auroras of sunrays through the tree crowns. All that brightness and colours, and light.
In practice, summer wedding reminds her of a preview of hell. All that sun – all that sun, oh god – feels pleasant for but a couple of hours, then turning into a scorching force, unforgiving to more artificial fabrics and layers of clothing. All that brightness and colours, and light – they blind you and make you sluggish. Freshly arrived guests hide wherever they can, be it in the camp's cabins or just under the trees.
Men lose their jackets.
He is tall. Dark. Handsome.
A caladium of a man: he helps with raising a canopy over the row of tables, standing out from other men involved in the task, intriguing and exotic. A plain white shirt with sleeves rolled up, longish hair tied back in haste – he looks casual, just like any wedding guest before the ceremony begins. And yet, everything that is him screams to the rest of the world to behold him and dare not to cover their eyes. Caladium is ostentatious, loud, hard to fit with other flowers – but it all comes naturally to it. There is no pretending, no pretentious humility of an orchid or dimmed beauty birds of paradise conceal within. Caladium just grows on its own, not caring about attracting attention – yet it does, every time.
Heather doesn't spare him more than a glance. She usually doesn't need more to judge: there are many flowers in the world, but only two types of people. Interesting or boring. Common or one of a kind.
He is a caladium. The answer is obvious.
There are many people in the bridal cabin: Courtney's grey and raw silver friends trot around in panic, remnants of her tulip days. Valeria, her stepmother, the most obvious embodiment of an orange lily Heather has ever seen, seemingly rules the house, domineering over the scattered ensemble. There is chaos, lots of lace, veils, and bridal white everywhere. And Courtney is right in the middle of it all, eyes wide and unfocused.
Courtney didn't want a maid of honour, certain, as always, that she'd manage it all on her own. But now she looks so lost, so confused with ruffles and satin surrounding her like an avalanche that Heather springs into action without a second thought. By the power absolutely not vested in her, she makes the flock of grey and silver scatter, her only weapons being a steely gaze frosted with a sugary smile. Even Courtney's stepmother, an entity consisting mainly of lips and eyeshadow, and will to rule over the chaos, step(mother)s back.
After the door to the cabin closes and the disorder of chatter, panicked whispers, and click-clacks of heels slowly calms down, Heather asks the question. She never beats around the bushes: there are only two types of people in the world, after all, and life is too short to waste it on guesswork.
“Who? Oh, that's Alejandro. A placement agent. He collaborates with us. Sends us campers and counsellors. A nice guy, whatever. Screw him, we've got more important matters to discuss!”
With her soft curls woven around her head in braids, makeup only half-finished and pyjama pants still on, Courtney looks positively deranged. She is a little bit sweaty, a smidge dishevelled, and fully panicking – or, as people usually refer to brides in such a state, glowing. With only one eye done, she runs around the room, answering the phone, picking up things only to put them back away, both causing and falling victim to the bridal chaos of her own doing. Heather rolls her eyes, then rolls a joint – both acts shameless and in the open. It's going to be a long day.
“None of that!” One tanned and carefully moisturised arm swats the cigarette away. Courtney glares at her, an angry hydrangea that she is, petals ruffled. “I need you focused, Heather. My head's spinning. I've barely even started dressing up and I'm already late. This is crazy. I'm crazy. You have to be my brain now.”
Heather decides to let the matter go. She recognises the look she is given right now – the horrors of the spring session of 2011 still haunt her in her dreams (the night when she woke up before dawn, screaming, "I didn't take your notes from torts, I swear!" shall never be mentioned in the company of the uninitiated). For now, the caladium man remains an unknown.
She takes the eyeshadow brush from one of many labelled and colour-coded cases Courtney has scattered around the place and urges the bride-to-be to sit down.
Alejandro.
No, she will not go on a second date with you. Caladium, not unlike hibiscus, is beautiful to look at, but difficult to maintain. Gorgeous, heart-shaped. Only slightly poisonous.
*
Creeping Speedwell
With her makeup done, Courtney is truly a hydrangea: pink and fresh, well pampered by her gardener. Her lacey dress hugs her tight: she worries the ends of its sleeves, eyes focused on a single point on the wall, but not really looking. A rustic bride, classically flustered and nervous. A flower about to be overplanted.
There is a style in rusticity, Heather admits. With sharp, angular lines and bold form, her own dress contrasts the bride nicely. They look like the embodiment of Heartland Province: from the city with all its design and purity of shape to the woods, colourful and delicate.
“You look like a fairy princess,” she proclaims. “A fairy princess straight from a swamp. I love it.”
Courtney purses her lips.
“I have no idea why you insist I became some backwoods hermit. I mean, I live closer to the big city now than ever before. I'm in Toronto every other week!”
“Sure,” Heather nods, one eyebrow raised. “And then it's back to the swamp. Face it, Court, you have your own world now. Your fenny, gloomy, Walden-on-steroids kind of world.”
"No Walden references, please. Thoreau never lived as he preached: he was too busy tooting his own horn to actually put any work into his own house. Or was that Emerson? I can never remember which one is which."
She approaches the window and Heather follows. Outside, Duncan talks to a group of men, gesticulating wildly (Heather scans them quickly, eyes squinted, but there is no caladium to be found). His white shirt, flawlessly pressed, clashes violently with a pair of worn-out sweatpants. Soon, he disappears from view, walking away with quick steps, an aura of pre-wedding madness surrounding him.
Hydrangeas are domestic, Heather knows it, and tulips even more. They need care – lots of it, actually. A constant reassurance, a gentle hand. Nourishment and lots of peace. Weeds need none of that.
“Not the worst outfit I've seen him in,” she comments, “but sweats are a bit too laid-back for the wedding, even for him.”
Courtney smiles.
“We're all a little late today, I guess.”
She steps away from the window and moves back to the night table, to multiple packages and boxes, and little bridal secrets.
"Duncan spent days searching for furniture for the reception. He saw my search history, you know? I was looking at wedding arches – beautiful things, expensive like you wouldn't imagine. But he managed to find something similar. Half the price, too. And the canopy? That's his handiwork. He's really taking it seriously."
“Wow. Almost like it's his wedding, too!” Under the bride's scornful gaze, Heather shrugs. “Honestly, he better be. Not many people get second chances like that. He should spend the rest of his life kissing your ass just for letting him crawl back to you.”
They start fiddling with the trinkets on the table. For all their openness and brightness, hydrangeas still turn their faces away from the sun sometimes. And hibiscus never shows its red centre openly.
"It's not about second chances," Courtney says quietly, breathing her words into a blotting paper that suddenly became urgently needed. "Or crawling back. I don't believe in soulmates or destiny, or... I don't know, divine interference? But... he is my person. He understands me. And I hope I understand him just as well."
Heather nods, not looking. The bottle of facial mist is much more interesting than Courtney's face now, anyways.
Creeping speedwell doesn't need pampering. It takes what it can find, fighting for last droplets of water, surviving on unwelcoming soil. Weeds are not welcome in many gardens – they are too brutal, uncouth, raw with how honest they are about their needs. Once invited, however, they will settle happily, adding to the ecosystem, taking and giving, protecting their flowers of choice from parasites.
Domestic and wild. They don't go together in theory. Still, there is a style in rusticity. Heather doesn't speak to flowers. But there are people out there who speak with flowers. And speedwell represents recovery.
“His mom sent me this.”
A little pendant hangs from Courtney's hand. A trinket, really: a dainty little thing, tear-shaped, with fleur-de-lys in the centre. Heather examines it closely.
“His parents didn't come?”
Courtney shakes her head.
“They aren't on speaking terms. But his mom wanted to come. Apparently, she had no say in the matter.” She exhales slowly, brows knitted. “She wrote me a letter. Quite long, too. Have you received a traditional letter lately? It feels so strange.”
She tries the trinket on, lies it against the lace of her bodice.
“I'm going to wear it today. Layer it with my mom's necklace.”
Courtney's mother, the creature of myth, loved pearls and raw silver. When Heather thinks about her, she sees grey.
You're my friend, she thinks. Probably the only good one I have. We don't talk much, true, but it's never been a problem for us. What are months of silence when we can just pick up where we left off so easily? It is your day today: you're barely planted in the new soil and you're already so different. We used to be two of a kind, or similar at least. And now you have different matters to be concerned with.
I don't know how easy it will be to pick up where we left off from now on. But I want you to keep being happy. And swampy. And fenny. Walden on steroids, Thoreau be damned.
If you ever stop, there will be hell to pay for some.
She thinks those things, but she doesn't say them. It's not her forte. Nothing colourful and delicate is.
She regards both necklaces with a frown, one nail tapping against the pendant. Fleur-de-lys against pearls and silver. Two mothers, two memories, two stories, now united, with bridal white serving as background.
“It's going to clash with the pearls.”
Courtney just smiles.
“What isn't going to clash at this wedding?”
Heather doesn't speak to flowers. But there are people out there who speak with flowers.
The meaning behind hydrangea is gratitude for being understood.
There is a style in rusticity.
*
Lillies and Bloodroot
Duncan – his sweatpants thankfully replaced – hands Courtney a plate of blessed coins under the protective circle of the wedding wheel, both things old and traditional. Puerto Rico meets First Nations – and the meeting is a peaceful union. Heather doesn't care much for history. Still, the sentiment is nice.
With the accompaniment of a string quartet – or is that a fiddle quartet? Rustic, it is all rustic... – the bride and groom kiss. Slowly, warmly. She nods in approval.
Courtney's stepmother and Duncan's... surrogate father? Carer? Well, Wes... begin a race towards the newly wedded couple, and Heather wouldn't even bat an eyelash their way was it not for the fact that both of them act as if they weren't racing at all. An orange lily against bloodroot, one bold, the other reserved, they don't even spare a glance at each other as they push forward. Still, Valeria wins, triumphantly wrapping her arms around the pair and planting kisses on their flustered cheeks. Her smile of a cat who has just eaten a canary can probably be seen from the moon. Wes sets for second place without complaint. The lesson is learnt: some people are meant to trot in high heels, others need to settle for lumbering in worn-out loafers.
Courtney's father approaches her next, more aloof than the previous pair, more out of place and awkward. If he is a flower, Heather can't decide which one. Lawyers don't care much for things colourful and delicate. Still, there is a thread of understanding there somewhere. There is something behind a clumsy kiss on a cheek and a way too enthusiastic handshake.
What that something is, Heather doesn't know.
Still, the sentiment is nice.
*
Spider Plant
Spider plants are simply the best.
Self-sufficient, free-standing, forgiving – like their namesake, all they do is exist, their needs suspended in the web of downward-facing leaves. Who said spiders are deceptive? All they do is wait, never asking for attention. Taking all sorts of abuse. You can forget about them for weeks and weeks on end, and they will be just fine.
Heather likes spider plants. Or maybe she hates them.
She can never remember.
Trent kisses Courtney on the cheek, then takes a step back. His smile seems sincere, similar to the ones he serves on his band's Instagram. We're doing this for you. We wouldn't exist without you. Follow us for more music and even more dreams. Like us. Like me. It's all for you.
Or do none of those things if you don't feel like it. It's fine.
When he approaches Duncan, Heather starts paying attention.
For months and months on end, she's been observing the wonky little triangle with its sides scattered all over the country: a hydrangea shedding its tulip-like disguise, a creeping speedwell slowly making its way to the garden. A spider plant, remaining as it was, taking action only when it was too late. So deliciously dramatic.
Real life is not a romance novel – especially not the cheap kind, sold in bulk for under a dollar when a second-hand bookshop runs out of business. Women are not a prize to be fought over and men are not possessive bastards with testosterone for brains. Starting a fight at the beginning of the reception doesn't sound like a plausible option. It would be so very tacky, Heather knows it.
Still, tacky is a style.
None of that happens. The men shake hands, then pat each other on the back, kindly and amicable. Everyone involved is an adult, after all – and nobody likes a wedding fight. So civil. So mature.
So anticlimactic.
Heather likes Trent. Or maybe she hates him.
She can never remember.
This is precisely why spider plants are the best. You don't have to think about them and yet, they are there.
“Is it just me or is the air heavy with mystery?”
She doesn't look round when a low voice bellows in her ear. The caladium man sounds exactly like she expected: velvety and soft, with a thick accent piercing through impeccable pronunciation. She smiles crookedly. It's no surprise he approached her. She is the only hibiscus in this garden, after all.
She reaches for her champagne flute, then clinks it against his.
“It is just you.”
Then she walks away. The night is still young.
*
Snake's Head
There is no garden without a snake. With their heads low, snake's heads lurk in the grass, alluring in their aloofness. Dangerous but sweet to smell, they lie and deceive, blending with their surroundings, friendly and harmonious, and yet centring all attention on themselves.
Heather doesn't like deception. And she knows how to hold grudges – even those which aren't hers to hold.
Surrounded by fairy lights hanging from the pine trees, the newlyweds are dancing slowly. Their eyes are closed and their foreheads touching – the visual is sickeningly sweet, but Heather doesn't mind. Having been a guest in their house for a couple of days now, she is well aware of the alternative. She can only be grateful it's just foreheads this time.
Gwen is here, too. Browsing through what's displayed on the dessert table, chattering casually with other guests, she is blending with her surroundings, and yet not at all. And – Heather's eyes narrow – of course, her outfit choice is tone-deaf. Glam or spooky, once an Instagrammer, always an Instagrammer.
It has been years since they saw each other in person. Luckily, the Internet provides when asked nicely, feeding your preconceived notions for as long as the heart desires. Heather doesn't like deception; and that is exactly what she sees in artistic self-portraits, in Parisian landscapes, in like and subscribe.
Maybe she is wrong. But she would never add snake's heads to her collection.
She observes as her unwitting arch-nemesis approaches the newlyweds, a friendly smile on her face. Real life is not a romance novel, Heather knows that. Still, avoiding one tacky disaster doesn't exclude the possibility of another.
She knows one thing. If the speedwell dares to creep even a step towards the spiderweb, there will be some serious weeding in his nearest future.
Again, none of that happens. There are only smiles and non-committal, quick hugs – and even if the hydrangea's petals pale slightly for a moment or two, her colours come back as her new husband's arms wrap tightly around her, a gesture Heather sees as loving.
Well, it better be. For Courtney, it might not be about crawling back, but all brides are a little sentimental. Heather, on the other hand, couldn't possibly care less about sentiments. They are not her forte. Nothing colourful and delicate is.
She wasn't proclaimed the maid of honour for nothing. Mostly because she wasn't proclaimed the maid of honour at all.
“You don't like me very much, Heather, do you?” Gwen asks her much later as their paths cross right after the parents' speeches. Her eyes are open wide, sincere under her short dark bangs.
It's no place for conversations like this. Heather sends her a smile. Like and subscribe. Maybe she is wrong. Flowers are not her forte.
“You're absolutely right.”
Then, she leaves.
*
Carnation
It's getting dark – darker and darker still, and fairy lights illuminate the surroundings. The guests are dancing or eating, or talking in small groups, sleepy and calm. The usual disorder creeps into the wedding reception: food leftovers are scattered over the tables, napkins form a small civilisation of their own under the chairs, the string quartet naps quietly under the nearby tree, pityingly left alone by the people who pay them. The impression of the scene is rustic, yes. But Heather doesn't mind as much.
Heather doesn't speak to flowers.
Still, carnation stands for fascination.
A flaunting flower on a dainty stem appears before her, extended in the offering.
“Heavy with mystery. Exactly like I said.”
Again, she doesn't look. She's heard him before, so now her sense of smell takes over. As is suitable for caladium, his scent is tangy, fresh, with just a hint of musk when inhaled deep enough. She drowns it with the powderiness of carnation, now in her hands, openly proud and trying too hard.
“Welcome back, stalker.”
“Ah, and here I thought I wasn't noticed.”
She raises her eyebrows at him. He is a caladium. He must know it. There is no way he walks around unnoticed.
“Are you with the bride or the groom?”
Heather doesn't like deception. She is also a hypocrite.
“Why does it matter?”
“I don't know which one to thank for inviting you.”
Real life is not a romance novel – and yet the archetypes needed to appear from somewhere. Sometimes you admire the flower; sometimes the flower admires you. People meet, then talk – or don't talk at all. She doesn't believe in soulmates, but she doesn't need her person, either.
Heather likes style. The rest is just details.
“How about you thank me?”
Her gift of carnation falls to the ground, forgotten. Details.
*
Night-blooming Cereus
Night-blooming cereus lets the world see its full glory only once per year; at night, when darkness covers it in a secretive veil and only those who know where to look can find it. There is only its scent, heavenly, sweet, with a promise of spice underneath, leading the curious to its source. The places it leads them to are unexpected, true – but isn't it worth it, if only to claim something nobody else has?
It is trashy to have sex at your friend's wedding – oh, so trashy, styleless, inelegant. So unfitting for these two, sophisticated rather than practical, luxury over function.
Still, they make it work.
Heather doesn't talk to flowers – but she digs her fingernails into the dirt for them, she provides them sunshine and gentle showers. She doesn't like them, that creature of steel and leather, faring well against the background of stormy skies; but threads of understanding wrap themselves against her fingers, unwanted and unexpected, weaving a tapestry of transparent spiderwebs.
She is a hibiscus, clean and perfect, but her centre is red, hidden but worth finding. He is a caladium, heart-shaped, ostentatious, only slightly poisonous – not enough to kill, still sufficient to make you dizzy.
The wooden cabin in the middle of nowhere, with sounds of wedding reception still reverberating against the window sills, is not for them: they do not merge with the crudity of the pine bed frame and rough cotton of the sheets. They are not wildflowers, common weeds fighting for their care despite the odds. They both need time and attention, and undivided diligence for them to bloom. Maybe that is why they are both so caring: with fingers and mouths, and tongues, and teeth, they are elegant and unhurried in their ministrations. Caring for your partner is caring for yourself, after all, caresses and touches effectively reciprocated. It's all about style, really.
Afterwards, she gets up quickly, ignoring his invitation to stay longer, his body lazily splayed over the bed. She doesn't talk to flowers. Outside, there is a wedding to attend, a union of a transformed hydrangea and a creeping speedwell, coexisting in a chaotic garden, sharing their space without suffocation. She leaves the caladium to bask in her scent for as much as he wants and goes back to fairy lights: many guests have already retired for the night, lights from their cabins illuminating her way. The newly wedded couple sit under the wedding arch, straight on the grass. Duncan's jacket lies forgotten next to him, Courtney stretches her bare feet so that they rest on his lap. Next to them, Wes and Valeria are deep in conversation, something about shared holidays and vacations, both clearly combative but showing nothing but smiles. Courtney's father is there, too, looking quite pleased which is as much as can be said about him. When he sees Heather approaching, she springs to his feet and comes back with a chair. She takes it with an approving smile. Heather never sits on the ground. Diving into a conversation, she forgets about the caladium man for the rest of the night.
The next day, he goes back home, sending parting smiles to inferior flowers, intriguing and exotic. He texts her soon after: she is still on the island, confined by the hospitality of the rustic garden when his message arrives. The text is long, flowery, ostentatious. She reads it, smiles secretly – she has a red centre, after all – then ignores it for a couple of days.
When she responds, she is back at home, between monochrome and elegance, with steel and leather – and flowers.
No, she will not go on a second date with you. But there is always a place for a first one.
She knows caladium and hibiscus enjoy growing together.
1. Camille Pissarro, The Boulevard Montmartre at Night
Gwen is in a pickle. And in Paris.
She doesn't wear berets. You will never find her with a baguette sticking out of her Birkin bag. And she cannot see the Eiffel Tower from even a single window of her two-room apartment. It's okay, though; Paris is none of those things, after all.
Paris is... lights. Dim lampposts on narrow streets, night lights in people's windows. And Paris is people, too:
Paris is Gwen. Artistic, messy. Colourful on the inside, elegantly dark on the outside. Different yet relatable. Friendly yet intriguing. She is Paris, but at night: black lipstick instead of a classic red, short hair curled up in messy ringlets with hints of olive green and dark purple hiding in between the strands. She is bell sleeves and corset lacings, matched with suspenders and cigarillo trousers. She is bulky boots and multiple scarves draped around dainty shoulders. She is big eyes, pouty lips, and pictures with friends, posing on Rue Saint-Maur with sketchbooks in hand.
Paris is also a black cat.
When it first appeared, Gwen was sure it belonged to a neighbour. No stray could be so confident, so in place, walking around with its tail straight up, no fear behind its green eyes. It let itself in on its own, nudging the balcony door open, then perched on her tiny coffee table (everything in her apartment is tiny. And adorable. And slightly witchy. And looks good in pictures.). After a while it left – only to come back again and again, until the visits became permanent.
She is in a pickle. She doesn't know what to do with it.
But she is also in Paris, so she leaves her balcony door slightly ajar. The cat will find its way, one way or the other.
2. Eugène Delacroix, Woman Stroking a Parrott
She took to Instagram like fish to water.
Her first posts, hesitant, with awkwardly chosen hashtags and tons of self-conscious jokes in descriptions, soon turned into stories of her life. Now, everything is there, in pixels, dressed in blue light. Paris. Nights out with friends. Cooking. Art. Self-portraits, black and white, refined and elegant, mixed with silly polaroids, brief moments of silliness, with jokey captures. She posts her work, too; little speed-painting videos, conservatory assignments and original ideas, colour-correlated sets with light placement changing the paintings themselves ever so slightly. Canvas versus face: she crafts images on linen and skin, recreates Van Goghian swirly brushstrokes on the curve of her cheeks, frames her eyes with cubistic roughness of form.
Everybody loves it. Everybody loves her.
So relatable.
You're so refreshing! I'm sooooo happy I found your page.
Finally, a model who doesn't flaunt her boobs around.
Talented and pretty. I'm in love.
There are some pictures of the cat there, too. A black shadow, in motion, partially covered by the curtain. A close up of a whiskery muzzle with droplets of milk still stuck to the fur. A black fluffy ball curled up in a makeshift cat bed, made out of an old crate and a pillow.
He's chosen you! You're his human now.
You're a modern-day Snow White.
That's our Gwen!
Aww, Gwen.
3. Claude Monet, Lady in Green
She knows how much it takes to form a human face.
She knows how many brushstrokes hide behind a simple smile, how many layers make up the skin texture. All for nothing: realism is an illusion, after all, a mosaic of dabs and splotches of reds and whites. Still nature, deer rutting – things people look at and nod in understanding, then promptly forget.
She doesn't like to be forgotten.
Her class' exhibition is a success.
And she shines the brightest. What a bold approach, people say. What an adventurous interpretation of shape and form. A true human study. The unknown. Dark lines of paint, of charcoal, of pencils. Inapparent, fascinating. Different yet relatable.
She mixes styles. She mixes media. She mixes in with the crowd well.
It's all so nice.
#DreamsDoComeTrue.
The old woman is short and stout. Grey hair strands slip away from the emerald green silk scarf around her messy knot, flying around her face, small and angular. Shawls, skirts, knit sweaters – a typical gallery dweller.
When she approaches Gwen, she looks almost accusatory.
“Your art,” she says. “I don't like it. It's wrong.”
“What's wrong with it?”
She frowns, bushy eyebrows like angry caterpillars.
“Everything! Colours are wrong. Lines are wrong. Forms are wrong. Message is wrong, too.”
Gwen only nods slowly, a pleasant, amicable smile plastered across her face. She isn't offended: there is no message, after all. It's all art for art's sake. The emptiness ready for interpretation. A question mark. Wherever the answer might be, it's not in her hands. She can only hold a brush and let it touch the canvas. Then, obviously, put it on display.
It's fine if you don't like it. As long as others do.
When she comes back home, the cat is waiting on the balcony. When allowed in, it curls up on a loose end of her window curtain, purring softly, the end of its tail only slightly twitching. Perfectly fine, but still annoyed.
4. Paul Cézanne, Still Life with Skull
Apparently, she has a problem with men. She hears that from Anouk, her friend from the conservatory. She treats them as ultimate definers, Anouk says, adjusts to their personalities and builds her hobbies accordingly.
If it's true, Gwen doesn't know. She just wants to be liked.
She thanks Anouk for her insight. Later, she blocks her on Instagram.
She spends the day taking pictures. With a floor lamp instead of professional stage lights, carefully angled, propped totteringly against a kitchen chair and a bunch of pillows, her face is only half-lit, looking eerie but strangely alluring in the eye of the camera. Black lipstick against white skin; eyelashes cast long shadows over unblushed cheeks. Behind her, a painting – a huge canvas with splotches of black. A Rorschach test in Eldritch nightmares; crows of inkblots flying across the linen, followed by sparse dots of craft glitter. Stars.
It's all very amateurish. Homemade, crude, adorably quirky. I don't have all that fancy equipment, you guys, I'm just a poor artist in Paris. Hope you like it anyway! I do it all for you.
I love you, guys.
For the final picture, she tilts the painting on the easel, lies down on the floor and smiles brightly for the picture, blowing out stray strands of hair from her face.
#Clumsy.
In the bottom corner of the photo, there is a lampshade, clearly visible.
People's attention doesn't really matter all that much. As long as you have it.
5. Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, In Bed, The Kiss
She listens to Trent sometimes.
His band is good. Really good, actually – their music flows like abstract expressionism, all music lines intertwining only to separate a stanza later. Trent's voice, soft and friendly, is the only part keeping it all together.
She remembers him fondly. Considers him a friend.
Duncan never really comments on her pictures. An occasional like, a non-committal “cool” here and there, sometimes an update on the summer camp and its state in the DMs. Still, they keep in touch. They are friends.
She saw them both at Duncan's wedding.
She remembers it well.
6. Jean-Baptiste Greuze, The Angry Wife
It was a nice opportunity to visit her old place. To visit her mom and her brother back in Belleville (she loves them so very much). To take some nice pictures: an edge of a wedding dress with trees drowning in fairy lights as a background, the groom from behind, the newly wedded pair slightly out of focus, dancing. Perfect posting material.
My friends got married!
#Congrats.
She left a bowl of scraps on her tiny balcony. For the cat.
Their old summer camp looked different than she remembered. Cleaner, for once. Better taken care of. Not hers.
Her camp had its charm. It was not obvious, at first, but once all the campers got there together, got to know each other, the summer would start in full. She met so many friends there.
You're literally the best roomie ever.
Is that me? You drew this? I mean... wow.
We gotta meet up after summer, too. Throw a sick party together.
Oi, pasty! You're all right.
She looked around the cabins, eyes searching for initials carved into the wooden walls. They were nowhere to be found.
Everyone was so nice at the reception. The guests liked her dress, a dark grey, low-cut number. So elegant. So unforced. She would smile, thank everyone who noticed, then redirect their attention to the bride. Wasn't she the star of the event, after all?
Now Courtney ruled the summer camp.
She would never take Courtney for a fan of lace. But, to be fair, she never took Courtney for anything other than a bit snottier, less aggressive version of Heather. Someone who, while not being openly hostile, was never friendly enough to fit in with her circle of friends. Still, Duncan was her friend, so, naturally, Courtney was, too. Until she wasn't. The events of that summer were still vivid in Gwen's mind; she remembered feeling bad for Courtney, of course. Any decent person would. But Duncan and she were broken up a while before she got together with him.
Back then, it was her he chose over Courtney. Not that she still hung on to the thought. But these were the facts and nothing could change them.
That's just how things were.
When she approached her, Courtney looked uneasy. Her dark eyes, lined with browns and golds, were open ever so slightly wider than before, bottom lip worried by teeth almost unnoticeable. It was sad to see, though understandable. But Gwen couldn't help but feel a jolt of excitement. It disappeared as quickly as it arrived.
Congratulations followed. They complimented each other's dresses, talked about the hardships of organising a reception. She offered to take a selfie together, but Courtney politely refused, which was fine.
Again, that's just how things were.
“I was trying to talk to you,” she said to her later, over the champagne flute. “Back then, at summer camp. But Heather....”
Watched me like a hawk. But she watched you, too. Like one of those overprotective managers. You're doing amazing, sweetie. You were her little project, weren't you? Just another component of her grand plan to make my life miserable. She threatened me with violence. She threatened you with her unique, deranged version of kindness.
She wasn't even there when you and Duncan were together. She didn't know if what you had was worth anything. Everyone knew that you were overreacting: everyone knew we were just a better fit. That's just how things were.
Everyone liked me, but she didn't. She liked you. Why did she like you?
She took a deep breath, a small, meaningful smile on her lips.
#Blessed.
“... well, you know Heather.”
Courtney chuckled nervously. “Yes. Look, it's fine.” She took a sip from her own glass – water, Gwen noticed. “We were all young and stupid, and... well, not too well adjusted. At least, I wasn't. But now things are different.”
Then, Duncan emerged from nowhere. A kiss on the veiled temple. Fingers tracing the lace pattern on the bridal-white bodice. She would never take Courtney for a fan of bridal white.
Then again, she would never take Duncan for a fan of bridal white, either.
“There you are, princess. For a moment there I thought we had a bride on the loose, running somewhere in the forest. Who was that lady again? You know, the one from Shakespeare. Got crazy and started talking to flowers. Ophelia?”
And Courtney rolled her eyes, ever so slightly, but still smiled at him and her smile was different. Gwen tilted her head to the side, appraising the scene. It was a very pretty picture, if a bit cliché: a blushing bride, a dashing groom. And her, their friend from Paris, living her best life filled with art and whimsy, and other friends.
All in the summer camp that used to be hers.
Now Courtney ruled it.
Hands linked, rings glistening in the sun, the newly wedded couple bantered for a moment, an impromptu literature lecture intertwining with teasing jokes.
It was only then when she was noticed. It was fine, of course. She was not the star of the event.
“Thanks for coming, dude. We really appreciate it,” Duncan said to her, his tone friendly.
Dude.
“No problem. Anything for my friends!”
Gwen kept smiling. Weddings were fun and this one was no different. Such a great opportunity to visit family back in Belleville, to take some pictures, to meet old friends. To feel like she used to when the camp was a ruin and summer sun burnt her skin; when the girls from the cabin would help her with makeup. When Trent would play sad songs only for her. When Duncan's kisses felt almost like a challenge and Courtney would pretend to never notice them, but she would still look. It was all in the past, of course. But the thoughts still appeared.
I left you. You chose me over her back then, no matter how things look now, and I left you when you got into trouble with the law.
It was me who ended this.
It's about me.
They were all ugly so she dismissed them.
They toasted, her with champagne, both of newlyweds with water. The flutes clinked and the contact broke.
Then she went back to running away from Heather. It felt more natural.
7. Louis-Jean-François Lagrenée, La Mélancolie
She saw Trent that day, too. She saw Trent – but could have just as well not seen him at all, memories from ten years ago sufficient.
He looked exactly the same: soft features, kind green eyes, a mop of unruly hair falling on his forehead. The only thing missing, the only element of the puzzle to make the ten-year-old jigsaw complete, was his guitar. Now it was nowhere to be seen.
From her hiding spot close to the open-air buffet, she watched him. He was mingling, shuttling from one group of guests to another, pleasant but unassuming, never a centre of attention, but still present. Not unlike a cat, a blurry presence in the corner of a picture, hiding behind a curtain, just happy to be welcome.
He waved to her. Smiled a little. And then, when she was about to approach him, he was gone just like that. It has been ten years after all. She understood.
Here, in her camp, she had left him. And now, he left her.
She took a picture as the day was coming to an end. Far from the wedding reception, far from all her friends; behind the Fish Cabin where the previously collapsed catwalk led to a small deck overlooking the lake, she stood tall and straight, eyes as a focal point. The sun was setting behind her back, encasing her in warmth, painting her dark hair crimson. She smiled as the flash blinded her for a millisecond, dark lipstick contrasting with pale skin.
#BackHome.
She would post the picture to all her social media.
She would also close her eyes as she scrolled past it.
8. Henri Matisse, Codomas
That was then. This is now.
Gwen is in Paris. And, as a matter of fact, not in a pickle anymore.
Gwen is in despair.
The cat is in her room. Tail twitching, claws extending and retracting in an unknown rhythm, it lies in the middle of the floor with a woven rug crumpled underneath its small form and no fear behind its green eyes. Around it, there's linen and paper, and craft glitter spilt all over. Mixed styles. Mixed media.
Not a single painting left untouched.
She stands at the entrance, a basket in her hands. In it, there is fresh fruit and vegetables, and some meat scraps she got for free for the cat. Soon, it all lands on the floor.
She takes a step. Then one more, then another. The door to the balcony closes.
She puts the crate and the pillow on a window sill of the semi-basement apartment next to the entrance. She's heard the couple who lives there loves pets. There is some meat in the crate, alongside a bowl of water.
She doesn't want the cat to be harmed. Animals act on instinct, after all: there's no way to predict how they will behave. That's just how things are.
She just wants to be liked.
Later, with a hot glue gun in hand, she kneels in the middle of the room in her tiny apartment. Crumbs to shreds, charcoal to pencil: she puts it all together in the dim light on the lampposts outside her window, slowly, meticulously. It is all form, no message, but it doesn't matter. Soon, the final product assumes its multifarious shape. And even if it isn't truly done, it is enough. It's refreshing. It's relatable.
People will love it.
Realism is an illusion, after all, a mosaic of dabs and splotches of reds and whites. Still nature, deer rutting – things people look at and nod in understanding, then promptly forget.
She doesn't like to be forgotten.
She turns the camera on.
#StoryOfMyLife.
It will happen today.
Spring or summer will be the season. A warm day, even more so after they meet.
Ella will be wearing pink. With her protest sign, carefully crafted and painted in rainbows, she will look like cotton candy on a stick. A sugar plum fairy, with fiery conviction to her step and fairy dust in her pockets; licorice instead of hair, molten chocolate in her eyes, she will dance and laugh, and sing with the crowd, a bright soprano on top of the cacophony of different voices.
Leshawna will be wearing all the colours possible. Witches will don bright shades that day – and so will she, reds and oranges for fiery conviction, blues and greens to summon fairy dust specks flying in the air around. Tiny rainbows in her hair, each braid standing for a different letter in the variegated rudiments, she will look like she belongs in the sky, at the secret hour when rain and sunshine meet. She will dance and laugh, and sing with the crowd, a velvety alto supporting the cacophony of different voices.
It won't be difficult to meet in a happy crowd. Curious eyes, smiles of recognition. I don't know you – and yet I do.
“I love your costume, sugar.”
“What costume?”
Liminality.
A threshold. A transition. Autumn is when the world changes.
Then let it be autumn.
There will be clouds, heavy and pregnant with rain, and they will hide together under the umbrella they bought in haste, neither of them remembering to take it from home. Ella's legs will be cold, her customary stockings doing nothing against the chill carried by the wind. It always somehow sends the rain her way, Leshawna will notice. Ella is a child of fairy tales through and through, always flying rather than walking, and in autumn it will be no different.
They will walk together, down Irene Street, until the crossroads appear in front of their eyes. It won't be the first time: this is where they always part ways. Leshawna lives in Westside, Ella on Northdown Street. Rock, paper, scissors: Ella will win. The umbrella will protect her for the rest of the way. Leshawna will turn away in haste, her huge sweater over her head, long, dramatic bell sleeves fluttering in the wind. They will leave each other for a day, but it won't feel like it at all. In autumn, Ella can see Leshawna everywhere: her colours, reds and oranges and everything in between. Leshawna can smell her scent every step she takes, burnt leaves and sulphur, and cinnamon rolls from Henrietta's Pine Bakery. She will leave her, she won't leave her, she will call her as soon as she's home.
Then another autumn will come. And another. And another. Why will it matter, they won't ever know.
Liminality.
A threshold. A transition. Confused thoughts will run free, months and months on end. She is laughing. Am I that funny? Or am I here and she's here, too, and she's laughing because we're here, together? Winter will bring them closer. Coffee will be drunk, crumpets will be eaten: Ella's favourite high tea spot will become theirs. Does it taste good? Do you taste good? Does it taste good because you're here? If you are here, can I taste you?
In spring, there will be dancing, and lots of it: Leshawna loves music, after all, hips swaying to the rhythm, her body shaping and reshaping to the melodies only she will understand. Ella will twirl, her petticoat visible and laughter clear and pearlescent. On the dancefloor in Kee Bala, they will steal glances at each other, hidden moments of awe, memories of gleeful faces, eyes catching the light, arms and legs moving sensually. All in the name of friendship.
Liminality.
A threshold. A transition. You cannot dance forever, high on sugar, circling each other in an intricate routine consisting of what-ifs and what-if-nots. Friendship lasts only if it was friendship to begin with.
It will happen today.
When summer comes, they will talk.
They will go to Sugarbush Hill, after long minutes of Ella's chattering, her voice chirpy like a bird. Sugar to sugar, she will be drawn to the old maple farm, and Leshawna will follow, foregoing hills for sneakers, hiking up the hill in chase of sweetness.
They will drown in maple syrup: sticky and heavy like late evening sunshine, covering their fingers with rainbows mirrored in Leshawna's rings. They will talk, truly talk – about liminality, thresholds, transitions, moments when you meet each other for the first time and the world becomes confusing. They will talk about rain and borrowed umbrellas, and questions flying down with droplets of rain. They will talk about sugar, cotton candy, and dancing.
They will end their friendship.
And then, naturally, they will kiss.