The Inside Diaries

Gypsum

Saltpeter.

Saltpeter and a sailboat.

Or was that—not saltpeter on second glance—but gypsum?

She cupped her glance toward the nautical object, surrounded by majestic, billowing clouds of silver ether, behind which lay a brilliant cobalt sky, rays of light emanating forth as if in halo.

Definitely gypsum.

To her left, a bench. Empty. At her feet, smoothened pebbles of every which size, shape, and color.

If she called the boat back, would it return?

Inhaling deeply, she began to call out—

"Ack!" She flinched in bed as a startled Catticus gave a hiss. The morning beckons. Melanija yawned. Then an idea came to her. An unconventional idea at that.

Was it technically breaking and entering if one's relational ties were...circumspect at best?

She bit her lip. Only one way to find out.

An hour later, she found herself back at that lovely, grassy plateaued komorebi garden of yore, studying each and every herb and garden flower against the culinary photos within her phone.

Pansies...purple-studded richly-petaled pansies...check. Yellow ones too...

Mint? Plenty of it, Melanija thought to herself as she approached a side bush full of the herb, its heady scent prickling her nose just so. Previous to her arrival on the island, she'd associated the substance with sugarfree chewing gum and similar pastilles. The type to take prior to airplane ascent or descent. On a road trip for several hours or more. Et cetera. But it was wonderful to see the plant in its natural element, beckoning forth to the glowing morning sunlight, its leaves and hardy fronds swaying forth as if in silent salutation.

She checked the recipe again. Flowers, check. But wait—yellow hibiscus? The writer frowned. She'd only seen magenta ones. Yellow? But if it were possible that this island existed and everything mystical besides, surely the hunt for such an unusual blossom wouldn't be lengthy.

And less than half an hour later, it turned out she was indeed right. The remaining items were a handful of strawberries, a couple of exotic citrus (were oranges the same as pomelo?), and a lime. Those would be easy enough to find in her fridge back at her abode.

Upon setting foot in her kitchen some time later, she gently rinsed and scrubbed the blossoms and fruit, then deftly sliced the fruit into thin orb-like slivers, decorating a glass pitcher akin to the colorful, altogether summery photo. Adding various pale fruit juices and taking small sampling sips, she adjusted the concentration, continuing to add citrus slices and pansies to her creation. Finally, she tore several mint leaves, placing them atop the concoction. A final taste—she smiled—and—done.

Of course, now she had to figure out how to best transport the beverage. Maybe she wouldn't have to, though. Never one for taxi transportation (she preferred walking everywhere), she decided to make an exception, just this once. To those iron gates once more.

En route to the property, she silently mused to herself that this could all be a foolhardy venture. Perhaps there were no feelings between them. Or no way to work feelings out, if such existed and turned out to be more than an ephemeral chemical romance. Would he laugh at her? Maybe he would.

She shook her head in the next instant. Fernando was many things, but he'd never do that. His kind eyes, his sweet soul. His air of innocence coupled with a sense of confidence and, at times, wisdom belying his years.

Melanija never apologized to anyone ever.

Apologies, as she had come to learn over her childhood, were a means to be hurt—over and over again.

I'm sorry. It won't happen. Ever. And yet—it did, and it would.

She exhaled slowly. This wasn't childhood. This was different...right?

Only one way to find out.

Fernando sat up in bed. A noise in the kitchen—a creak—

He fell back onto his pillow and sighed. Those floors were centuries old and surely needed replacing. He was going to do it, take care of all of it, but there were days such as this where everything seemed just a bit more overwhelming than not. Lonely and quieter, even. Because Melanija wasn't here. Staring hard at a certain divot in the ceiling—a tiny crack in the façade?—he regretted his words, his rash behavior. Of course he shouldn't have assumed. Of course he shouldn't have said...what he said. Maybe it's too late—

Another creak, then a clatter—he sprang up silently, feet touching the floor now. The copper pots and pans. Tiptoeing out his bedroom door, he closed the door silently, making his way past various rooms and hallway paths until he found himself in the kitchen's archway, gaping at a certain familiar female figure.

"Good morning to you too," she grinned at his dumbfounded expression. "Want some?" She nodded toward the fruit-floral mixture, two glass cups awaiting pouring.

He nodded. "S-sure. That—" he stepped forward to face her across from the kitchen island. "That would be great."