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With the euphonic chime of the doorbell ringing in her ears and the sickly-sweet scent of roses permeating the air, Asahina Mafuyu wonders if this is the first time she’s ever been in love.
Whether it really is love is another matter entirely, but that is the first description that springs to mind. How else could she describe it? The cold but curiously consoling embrace of snow that settles around her shoulders in shimmering silver waves; pale blue eyes like pools of shallow water, rippling gently against her ankles with each step; and that smile, that sweet, sweet smile, which seems to reach out and wrap its arms around Mafuyu and whisper the words she’s been waiting a lifetime to hear.
The reassuring sentiment of everything will be okay is quickly overshadowed by Mafuyu’s second bout of contemplation: Why now? After almost thirty years of her life—ten since she’d given up on ever feeling this way about another human being, and another five since she’d solidified that decision as an immutable commitment—only now does the emotion rip straight through her, catching her as she steps into the unassuming jaws of a local florist.
She is quick to shrug it off and browse the planters. This is what Asahina Mafuyu does. Her heart crumbles to dust, and she kicks it dismissively beneath the soles of her shoes. The throbbing wound remains, but she doesn’t dare flinch, even as she sees the girl moving out of the corner of her eye.
Her delicate hair dances in waves. She is wearing a muddy apron, and her hands are buried deep into the flowerbeds. Mafuyu watches her slender fingers knead the soil, pushing down the tangled roots of a new sprout. She nurtures the bud from the barren ground. It fits perfectly in her palms.
The scene strikes Mafuyu as strangely beautiful. A single leaf jutting from the frozen earth, struggling to breathe.
She feels a lump form in her throat and looks away. She did not come here to ogle the florist, and she will do so no longer. Focus on the flowers in front of you. Pick one he would like.
This part never ceases to puzzle her. It is not difficult to choose a gift for someone who has little care for its intricacies and implications—for which there is a correct answer—and yet Mafuyu’s fingers always hesitate around the stem. This little pink flower is a lie. For all her guileless deceit, it is this small misstep which bothers her most: her heart aches as she watches it wither helplessly in a vase on the kitchen table, waiting to be taken out with the rest of the trash.
She is so absorbed in her self-pity that she almost misses the rustle of hands wiping hastily against fabric, followed by feather-light footsteps that stop shortly behind her.
“For your family?”
“Anniversary,” Mafuyu replies sharply. The skin itches beneath the silver band on her ring finger. She takes a deep breath, letting the tension in her shoulders flow through her body like poison, and her voice becomes lighter. “It’s been five years already, if you can believe it. I was thinking of finding a shade that matches me.”
She thumbs against a deep violet petal, and the florist frowns. “In that case, I wouldn’t recommend verbena. This color carries a connotation of regret.”
“Oh,” Mafuyu says plainly. She had already known this, of course, but she bites her tongue and allows her hand to fall from the flower’s lonely cheek. This is neither the time nor place for her baggage. She reaches for the neighboring bed and manages to dredge up another hollow smile. “How about this one? My mother always told me pink is a safe bet.”
“Your mother is correct,” the florist says, but she does not return the smile. “This is a perfect gift for someone you love.”
Her eyes bore into Mafuyu, who suddenly finds that she can no longer feel the floor beneath her feet. It seems those vapid pools are far deeper than she had first thought, and she kicks uselessly in their depths, but there are no swirls of dust to validate her efforts; she is sinking, and Mafuyu allows herself to drift deeper and deeper and deeper in this comfortable embrace which expects nothing of her, not even to breathe.
But of course her lungs long for air, and the gentle grip on her throat soon becomes terrifying. It has been a long time since Mafuyu had something she wanted, and with it comes the realization of everything she has to lose. Safety and stability. Blissful ignorance. A fabricated sense of pride. A life which is certainly not worth living, but is at least without pain.
Mafuyu opens her mouth, but before she can say a word, her eyes land on a figure in the background who is calling someone’s name.
“Kanade,” she shouts, and Mafuyu marvels at how this girl couldn’t be more different from her. She has short messy hair pulled back like a stray mutt, and dark ink criss-crosses haphazardly up her arms and beneath the thin straps of her tank top until it nips at her jawline. There is a ferocity to her figure that sets Mafuyu’s hairs on edge, and she resists the urge to physically recoil from the heat.
It becomes much harder to do so when the florist standing before her perks up at the savage sound. She turns around, and Mafuyu catches that gentle smile lifting her cheeks again before her face is obscured by a column of silver-smooth snow.
Her heart is already crumbling to dust, and then Kanade calls back to the brute waiting at the front entrance.
“Don’t worry, babe. I’ll be right there.” Mafuyu was wrong. It is not dust but acid, and it burns and burns and burns as it trickles down her ribs and stomach and sears the inside of her chest like a hot brand. “So you’d like the pink verbenas, then?”
What sweet bitterness this is.
“No,” Mafuyu replies. Her throat feels dry and scratchy, but her voice rings out clearly despite it all. “I think I’ll take purple after all. He won’t know the difference.”
A few thousand yen for the trouble, and Mafuyu stands on the thin walkway between seventh and eighth street, the pernicious bouquet clenched in her trembling fingers. The door swings closed behind her with another pleasant chime. It has started to rain, and a few swollen drops cling to her heavy overcoat like ivy, binding her rotting skin to her body. The effort is futile. This paltry shower could not bring her back to life.
She shakes her head. It’s time to go home.