oh, anna [-hs]

fine line

"We cannot simply sit and stare at our wounds forever" 
(1Q84, Haruki Murakami)

71.

HARRY'S POV

"When I think about Sunflower," Mitch rolls his eyes and clears his throat, continuing. "I think about all the beautiful memories we had together."

Sarah nods. She stuffs her hands into her pockets. The dry wind blows through us and plays with a few loose strands of her hair. My feet sink deeper into the sandy beach.

"Like that time I forgot to feed him for a week when Harry went to Japan last minute because he was a fucking dumbas--"

"Mitch." Sarah snaps. Mitch huffs and looks up at the sky.

"Let's see, um." He scratches the back of his shoulder and winces, like thinking of something to say physically pains him. "Sunflower was a fish. An orange fish--"

"Black and yellow." Sarah shakes her head.

"What?"

"The fish was black and yellow, babe. Like a sunflower. That's why..." Sarah trails off, her sentence transforming into an impatient sigh.

"Alright yeah, black and yellow. My favorite memory of Sunflower is from the first day we got her--"

"Him," I correct. Mitch groans.

"Yes, fucking hell!" He tosses his head back in exhaustion. "Harry and I took shrooms. He smashed his window falling through it, and busted his lip open, and bit off part of his tongue. Wicked night. Anyway," He side eyes Sarah nervously. She's taken her hands out of her pockets and crossed her arms. "We wrote a song that night, and to send Sunflower off, Harry and I are going to perform it now."

Mitch swings around the guitar on his back, plucking a few strings to warm up his fingers.

"This is Sunflower Volume 6," he turns to look out at the ocean, squinting from the sandy breeze. And his hands begin to play.

The sun blazes down into the water. Sarah leans in and rests her temple against my shoulder. With her arms tightly crossed, her elbow pokes my side. I take a deep breath, and softly sing

"Sunflower, my eyes want you more than a melody. Let me inside, wish I could get to know you."

The wind blows Sarah's hair and it tickles my chin. Mitch's fingers slide up and down the neck of the guitar. His tongue pokes out between his lips, his eyes are dark. He doesn't look up from the instrument.

Soft and somber, not the way the song sounds in the studio. Strangely I like it better like this. 

"Sunflowers, sometimes, keep it sweet in your memory. I was just tongue-tied."

Mitch takes a breath and joins me in harmony.

"I don't wanna make you feel bad. But I've been trying hard not to talk to you. Sunflower, sunflower, sunflower."

We're sitting on that bench at the MET again, and I feel her so close to me. It's burning me. I need to touch her. I'm trying so hard not to, but I can't help it. I've been trying so hard all night. I need her one more time. I need to taste her, feel her, breathe her in and out.

But she doesn't want me. She deserves better, and she knows it. 

"Harry," she sounded angry. I froze, my hands wrapped around either of her thighs.