wither

II

I traced my fingers along the blue hydrangeas peeking through the gaps of the fence, around the corner. The white paint was old and chipped, letting the colour of the flowers fill the spaces where it had fall off. On the other side of the corner, vines of all sorts had managed to hug the fence, and mostly all plants - of which there was many - were above the level of the fence.

The fence gate swayed with a squeal, after a few times of opening it, I had stopped attempting to make no sound. I was almost certain that she was aware of my presence every time I pushed that gate open, she could hear the sound of the old hinges followed by slow wandering footsteps along the stone pathway, but she had always chosen to ignore it.
I could not help but ask myself if she was ever driven by curiosity to take a spying look through the curtains to see whom the letters came from, but then again I couldn't affirm that she hadn't. Quite frankly, that made no difference, for it seemed that just like me, she knew that even the smallest of details could disturb the tranquility, something that was of comforting value to both of us.

His car was nowhere in the driveway, that was the assurance I needed to let my mind rest easy.
He was her boyfriend. I didn't know much about him beyond his name. He came hand in hand with her to the dinner party, a tall man whose light skin was complimented with light clothing. He had quite the energy, which he seemed to direct to whichever topic related to him, such enthusiasm that helped him take the lead on every conversation he was a part of. But in a way, there felt to be a connection lost with his girlfriend, who he'd left in my company for the majority of the time. Contrary to how one would imagine a relationship with a fire-fuelled person like him, everything seemed to be cold and distant between them, his name would burn her tongue when talking about him, and a mortified glimpse would take over her eyes as she tried to slither away from the topic.

The scent of cinnamon tea from the open window blended with the smell of the flowers around her crowded garden. Roses were starting to bloom on the vines wrapped around the porch columns. I was careful not to step on the small blades of grass that grew between the cracks of the stone pathway as I made my way to the pot of yellow daisies where my letters were usually left.
Covered amongst other bushes, the pot of the yellow daisies was itself almost invisible, let alone something carefully hidden between its branches, so unless it's looked for, the letter is out of sight entirely.

Two small hollyhocks were tied together with a weary thread of wool, the kind useful for knitting, with a small piece of paper attached. With no hesitation, but rather confusion, I picked the flowers, eying it with a puzzled look, yet still it would be a lie to say that it wasn't quite the pleasant surprise.
With every letter that I leave, there is always a flower left behind for me to take, sometimes other simple things that she had handcrafted, but we had always been quite content with the silent exchange.
Despite of the confusion, there was a rush of childish excitement to see what piece of paper contained. The mere thought of having something written for me, from her, had somehow managed to make me feel so elevated in more ways than one. If I were to compare the feeling, I'd say it was like that of a high-school hallway crush, so stupid yet so fulfilling. For once, I didn't bother to bear the thought of where this change of events would take us, I was beyond willing to embrace it.

At times I'd stay to watch her, coming out to get the letter after making sure I'd left, waiting for the goodbye squeal of the door. She sits by the window every time as she reads the letter, and even from afar, it was never hard to notice the joy that brightens up her face. She leans her head on her arm by the window frame as she reads, and disappears for a few minutes after she's done, only to come again with flowers in her grip to rest in pot of yellow daisies.
Strangely, my letters had always seemed to fill an empty void in her day, and I had always left with something that was only complete by being within her atmosphere.