I Fell in Love with Hope(20)

“But she says I don’t have arms.” I extend them for emphasis.

“You have delightful arms.”

“She says I hunch.”

“You do hunch. You belong at Notre Dame.” He says that last part in French, so I don’t know what it means, but given that it’s probably offensive, I don’t ask.

“Do you know how to dream?”

“Sure.”

“She said I need to dream.”

“You seem pretty preoccupied with what this new girl thinks about you,” C says like I’m a child with a crush at recess. “I like her. I had breakfast with her and Sony. She actually reminds me of you in that strange yet likable way, only less awkward.”

“Less awkward?”

“Well, she probably knows how to dream. And stand up straight. And read sarcasm.”

“She knows how to read everything,” I say, pouting.

C chuckles. “Are you jealous?”

“I’m suffering.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

“She’s making me suffer.”

“That’s what girls do.”

This girl. Yellow and amorous. She’s a story. A novel I’ve already read, but in a foreign language..

“She scares me, C,” I say, and it’s starting to taste like a stale truth.

“Why?” C asks softly, closing the magazine.

There isn’t a way to answer him. She’s marred with words in his accent, lit with a fire cousin to Sony’s, and molded with wit like Neo. When you meet someone infatuating, someone you can stare at and listen to and talk to without taking notice of time, someone you think of constantly, there comes the question of blooming addiction. Nothing addictive is ever good for you. Not Hikari and especially not Hamlet.

C drags a hand across my back, patting it. “Don’t overthink it. You always overthink. That’s why you have no arms.”

Coughing fills the room, an easy kind. C perks up. He’s quick to give Neo attention.

“Hey,” he whispers, moving the hair out of Neo’s eyes. “How are you feeling?”

Neo’s eyes flutter open, a darker color surrounding them. “As good as I probably look.”

“Mm,” C hums, patting down the sheets around him, making sure his back brace doesn’t pinch his skin. “Drink your juice.”

“Urgh,” Neo sounds, as the straw is forcibly placed against his lips.

“Now, please,” C says.

“I should’ve asked for more sedatives.”

“You’re finally up, huh?” Eric enters, tapping the monitor by the bed. He gently takes Neo’s arm to change his IV.

“Haven’t I been roughed around by medical professionals enough?” Neo groans, to which Eric flicks the inside of his elbow. “Ow.”

Our nurse feigns innocence. “I’m just looking for a vein.”

C sighs, his worry audible.

“Neo,” he whispers, caressing the purpling blotch of skin just beside his collar.

“Don’t say anything,” Neo says, hissing at the pain.

“I know it’s not from the surgery.”

“It sounds like you’re saying something.”

C doesn’t have the chance to retaliate. A loud pair of tip-toeing shoes trail past the scenery and kick the door open—dirty white sneakers.

“Hello, heathens!” Sony spreads her arms wide open, a full tote bag on her arm that seems to have something inside jostling around. “Eric! I didn’t see you there.”

“Why is your bag moving?” Eric asks, narrowing his eyes at her.

Sony grasps the bag closer to her body. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Did you steal a baby or something?” C asks.

“Steal? C, how dare you accuse me of such fiendish activities? Hikari, come defend my honor.”

Walking in behind the devil, my sun from last night emerges. Easy and warm with the morning. She and Sony seem to have gotten close in all of a day. I guess flames tend to take to each other no matter where their light is from.

Hikari laughs at Sony. She says hello to Neo in that soft voice, touching his brace, saying more, asking things. Neo doesn’t seem to mind. He’s there with her, despite the drugs, listening, responding, not drawing to the window he likes so much. She can read anything, I forgot. Even someone so hell-bent on hiding his pages.

“Oh. Flowers,” Sony says, her nose wrinkling in distaste.

Beside me on the window sill, bouquets lay next to unread cards wishing recovery in messy cursive. I haven’t always understood irony, but I like this particular piece. For someone you wish to live, give them something that is dying.

“What do you have against flowers?” Hikari asks, touching the wax paper and the petals.

I’ve been staring at her face for so long that I didn’t see the little clay pot in her hands. Two little clay pots. They can’t be larger than juice cups, plants surfacing an inch’s worth from the soil, still in infancy. She lays one down next to the bouquets, her offering, sans card, and alive.

“I have nothing against flowers,” Sony says, taking a single stem and motioning with it. “I have everything against flower corpses.”

Adjusting the little pot under the light, Hikari caresses the barely there leaves, dusting them, positioning them, so they’re kissed by light between the blinds.