Flower Girl

Two

Poire took a deep breath. She felt conflicted. Yet, left with no choice but to glue her eyes to the paper and mouth words she believed were not hers, she asked, "If I do it, will you tell me more about this place?"

"Of course," the lemur said. "In fact, you might actually learn more by reading your list."

Poire did not like the way he referred to the list as hers, nor did she appreciate the sharp edges in the corners of his voice. She huffed, puffed, and looked up and down before finally bringing the writings to her face. "One," she started again, "make enemies. Make sure they hate you. Two, reveal the liars. Three, don't kiss the toad. Four, eat a finger, but not two... Christ, this is disgusting, must I really—"

"Read the list, girl. Read it all."

"Very well." Poire sighed and listened to the paper crinkling between her little fingers. "Five, look to the moon. And six, remember." She paused. "Remember? Remember what?"

The lemur shrugged. "Who knows?" he said. "You're the one who wrote it."

"For the last time, I didn't! I don't remember writing—" She paused. "Oh."

Poire laughed.

"It still makes no sense," she said. "How in the world would I know in advance that I would forget?"

Again, the lemur told her: "Who knows. You're the one who wrote it." However, this time, he did not just stop there. "In either case, it is quite the list, girl," he said. "What will you choose to make of it?"

"I suppose that no matter what I do, you won't ever call me by my name, will you?"

"Aha! A question for question."

"And a pear-flavored pie for a pear-flavored pie."

"You do not take eyes?"

"I'd rather have a pie."

"Enjoy closing your eyes, do you?"

"I just like sweet things."

"Fair enough. I will take that answer."

The wind sped up, ruffling Poire's petals and her companion's fur. Poire thought she could smell the scent of grass not too far away, but then she had another thought: that this was all ridiculous! I do not have a nose, after all.

"It's very black and white."

"What is?" said the lemur.

Poire looked down to her feet. "The list," she murmured over the lemur's sudden outburst of laughter.

"That it is. That we are." The animal smirked; or at least, it looked like a smirk to Poire. "Why don't you go home, girl?"

"I don't want to go back," Poire said. "I live with a pig, a snake, and a monkey, and they don't understand me."

"Then," the lemur chuckled, climbing further up his branch, "why don't you tell me about it?"

"Do you really have time for that?" she blurted, though it was her having time for it that was her true worry. It was getting dark, and Poire didn't understand how the passing of seasons, how the colors shifting and seeming either eternal or short-lived, worked here. But even so, returning to her special place was something Poire could not do—not now, and perhaps not ever.

"Of course," the lemur told her. "We always have time here." The sides of his mouth ignored gravity. He showed Poire his fangs.

Poire's legs grew stiff. She nodded, agreeing to tell the animal her story; however, she also quite yearned for a seat. As if answering her call, a large tree fell to its doom, landing right next to Poire's flimsy figure. The girl almost screamed—but the keyword here is almost, lest we forget she was missing a mouth. And so, the only sounds that came out of her throat were strange gurgles and groans and syllables she wished she could have pronounced right but couldn't, for the forest could hear the girl's thoughts alone, and nothing more.

The lemur watched in silence, waiting until Poire had calmed herself.

She took a seat at atop the tree's body. "I woke up again. To the same old ceiling with a crack in the middle the snake never wanted to fix." As if given a cue, the birds began to chirp again. "She didn't want to fix it, because she thought it was a sign."

"A sign?"

"Yes." Poire nodded. "A sign from God."