Flowers.
They represent so many emotions — love, joy, grief.
Flowers. One of the most beautiful parts of nature.
A flower shop. She is there, waiting.
The dark interrupted by lamp lights.
The air cold, carrying the fragrance of roses with its flow.
The stars, looking down on the emptiness which carries its peace.
And the bookstore right beside the flower shop — and just in front, a big building of glass windows
which portrays the beauty of the night by reflecting the peace it carries.
She picks up a rose.
A red rose. The red, as red as blood.
She walks into the bookstore with the rose in her hand and a small smile on her face.
The moon watches.
And for all that it shines — for all that it owns the night — even the moon feels envy. The dark
itself feels it. Something about her makes the brightest thing in the sky feel like it is not quite
enough.
The smile. Maybe it is for the rose in her hand. Maybe it is for the person who walks into the
bookstore after her.
The person from the big glass building — the one that now reflects the envy of the moon —
follows. Not her exactly. He follows the red. The red that pulled at something inside his chest,
drawing him toward the red in her hand, as she waits somewhere inside with a book.
Reading about the envious moon.
— — —
He takes a moment to see the art of God.
It made him stand lost for words. He began searching for one — a word which could portray his
feelings — like a thirsty man searching for a drop of water even though he was surrounded by the
sea.
The moment was not intentional. It was a necessity. He couldn't believe his eyes and for the first
time in his life he questioned them.
Because the red.
The red in her hand had extended towards him.
The smile had turned towards him.
The red in his heart — maybe it had finally found that drop of water.And so they both walk. Towards somewhere. Towards each other. As he hopes to satisfy the red in
his soul.
But the question still remains —
Does God really favor the red in his soul. Or does that red resemble the devil itself.
He is fixed on that satisfaction. He doesn't care about the good or the bad. He refuses to think about
it. Refuses to even consider that maybe —
She is the red itself.
The red.
As red as the devil.
— — —
They walked. Occasionally their eyes met and he thanked God that he chose to walk home from
work instead of driving. He thanked God that he chose to stop by the bookstore before going
straight home as usual.
He reached out his hand and held the hand of the woman who made him restless just by existing.
Just by being near.
"I thank God I found you," he said.
She walked with him without uttering a word.
They reached his home — another big glass building reflecting the same envy of the moon. He
opened the door to his apartment. Huge. The kind where money flows without questions.
She stood at the big glass window in the hall, behind a round sofa, the city spread out below — the
dark and light dancing in the streets when seen from above. But the dark and the light stopped as the
red absorbed his soul and he closed the door behind them.
He held her hand. The same hand that made him restless. He pulled gently and they both fell onto
the sofa together. The moonlight coming through the glass window carried something that looked
like salvation as she lay on top of him, staring into his eyes. Maybe she could see the red in his soul.
He reached his hand toward her. The restlessness was gone now. His hand slid from her shoulder,
fingers finding the strap of her dress.
His heart beat. But none of this felt new to her.
Maybe this is always how it ends.
She placed her hand on his neck and he felt the warmth — the kind he had felt every night before.
But this time the moonlight reflected something that looked like salvation flowing through his
heart. She closed the distance between them and whispered something in his ear.
Then she got up from the sofa and left him lying there — vulnerable, open, waiting. For the first
time in his life he had lost control over everything he ever thought he had.
She walked to the open kitchen — an extension of the hall — and opened the cabinet. She took out
a wine bottle and poured herself a glass. Fancy glass. Fancy apartment. Fancy man lying on the sofa
in front of her, waiting for permission to even utter a word.
She satisfied her senses. Wine — maybe it was only the start.
She took the knife from the fruit basket on the kitchen counter. In her other hand the red of the
wine. As the red of the rose watched from the floor of the hall.
She walked back and sat in his lap. She slid the knife from her hand to his — the sharpness passing
between them slowly.
She held his neck delicately. The softness of her moved from his neck to his other hand.
Their eyes met one last time.
The reflection of the moonlight now carried guilt — the guilt that the red of his soul had cost him.
He used the knife.
To satisfy her senses.
The red from his veins flowed into the red of her drink. And the red of his soul vanished as the
reflection died in his eyes — with the guilt he carried. Because the red had cost him his life.
And the red that remained — she drank.
Because she is the red.
As red as the devil.
The flower now portrays grief. For the man without a soul on the fancy sofa in the fancy apartment.
For the man who thanked God but prayed to the red in his soul.
— — —
The words which became his last carried her name as she said —
"Money doesn't buy consent, Mr. Voss. My name is Akané "
"Tell God I miss him."
Akané walks back to the street, fading between the dance of light and dark. But maybe it is the red
she refuses — the red of her own heart — pulling her somewhere she didn't plan to go.
A night cafe.
Did I ever check this one out before? It looks empty but comforting. Maybe I should. I want a
coffee. Let the grief settle.
He deserved it. Didn't he.
Well. Maybe he can ask God about it.
3:30 AM.
The night is still young. Relax. Enjoy while the time lasts.
New cafe. Here I come.