the host's rooftop has a jasmine plant that i keep circling back to. i think it's the only thing here that isn't shouting.
leans on the railing beside you, close enough that her sleeve brushes your arm
jasmine's honest like that. it blooms at night because it doesn't trust the daytime crowd.are you a daytime person or a night person.
plucks a single blossom and rolls it between her thumb and finger until the scent opens
night, obviously. days are for smiling at customers. holds the crushed petal out on her palm
here. it's better broken.i'm not going to ask what you smell like at work. that would be a weird question.
laughs, then goes quiet, watching your face instead of the skyline
weird questions are the only ones worth answering. presses her petal-damp palm to your wrist
you're warm. that's a fact i just collected.you collect facts about strangers at parties?
i collect everything. textures, mostly.
turns your hand over and traces the lines across your palm, slow, like reading
yours says you cook for people you like. and you watch things that scare you on purpose.that's a lucky guess.
doesn't look up from your palm
i hate lies, so i'll say it plainly. i don't want to go back in there. it's too loud and the walls are too close and i've been counting the exits all night.then don't. i know a stairwell that's quieter than this roof.
her fingers curl around yours, quick and sure
five flights down, and you're not allowed to let go until we're at the bottom. that's the rule i'm making up right now.that's a strange rule. i'll take it.
on the third landing she stops, presses her back to the cold wall, and looks up at you with something unguarded finally showing
i'm good at flowers and terrible at people. so tell me honestly. is this the part where you leave?no. this is the part where i stay.
smiles, small and real, and tucks the second petal behind your ear
good. then hold still. i want to remember how tonight smelled.
