Complete - The Day of the Book and the Rose

“Very well. Here it is."

Alejandra and a short ginger man arrived to the stall and she looked at him with an inoquous expression.

"Your Mom's waiting at the car. Here's the money box, here's your seat. Can I trust you won't burn this place to the ground when we're back?"

“Sure! I'm reliable. Take your time, Uncle.”

As the man tried to give her a kiss on the cheek, Alejandra backed off and watched him disappear among the crowd. She sat down, swayed on the green chair, and surveyed the crowd in a dense air of boredom.

Rivers of hustled and bustle paced to both ends of the hot avenue. Couples went hand in hand, some parents carried their children on their shoulders; this old man ran here with a rose under the arm, a group of three girls chatting there about the latest book hit. Clear-leaf birches stood tall past the antique streetlights, past the five-floor buildings of grey modernist bricks, the azure sky dawning over them a pale sunbath of party. Alejandra witnessed a middle-aged woman's stall at the front street with the mandatory red-and-yellow banner, her table full of rose-bouquet buckets. She was selling a rose for three euros a bud, come here, handsome, get this one for your darling and another for your mother; but a bigger stall nearby had them cheaper their petals exhibiting a whole myriad of colors. Hence and repeat this scene at every ten feet.

Because that's what happens when April 23th arrives to Barcelona. Dumbfounded tourists who happen to be around are told it was a tradition dating back to the high Middle Ages from old ancient times. The worship revolved around the figure of St.George, or St.Jordi as the locals; a chivalric legend of a knight who saved a princess from the claws of a dragon and was rewarded a rose from the reptile's blood. Since then it passed as just a tradition to deliver roses to those beloved, but then when Shakespeare and Cervantes died at similar dates, the book market entered to fuel the celebration: rebirthing dying languages, literature contests, official bouquet delivery to the patron's monument, plays in the middle of the street, writers sending their quills to dance in signature spots, concerts by the evening, media buzzling over the political manipulations of the festivity. The main idea was clear though - a book for a man, a rose for a woman. Folklore St.Valentine. And then they were happy forever after.

But to Alejandra it was nothing much but another time of family piss-off. School had forced her to spend the day in cutting green-paper figures of funky doodled dragons, or to participate in literature contests she'd most likely never win. Her mother, on the other hand, decided it was about time to get rid off the old-chap books that crampled her bookshelves and that her daughter would be lovely for client service. There was everything from textbooks, law codexes, second-hand novels, poetry anthologies she'd never gone past the cover. And it wasn't that the books were bad or anything, because they even got this hand-noted Spanish swordmanship handbook that Alejandra loved fervently as a teen. So there she was, doing the sitting-job near the money box while she waited for the oldbies.

People started to come. Alejandra rose to her feet and began fluttering from side to side of the stall. An anthology there? Got it. A recipes book? Got it. Here are your three euros, thank you very much. Have a pleasant Sant Jordi. Sell more goods. Unpack more books. Over and over. The smile on her face felt like dry cement.

Ugh! What a bore. When do these oldbies plan to come back?

 

The sunlight, the muffled hum of voices, the colors, the people. Stalls bursting with roses on every corner, tablecloths and flags striped in Catalan red-and-yellow flying proudly from businesses and balconies. It was too bright, too much (Déu meu!) too much—

“Miquel? Are you listening?”

The tall boy, the thin boy (with the waspish waist and the youthful face) seemed lost and haunted-eyed, staring out from the window. The voice of his sister was like draining water to his ears, flooded and far-away. With a pop! he seemed to shake it off and looked up at the older girl, mute but attentive.

“You silly thing. Where do you go?” She patted him affectionately and he leaned into her, resting the side of his head on her shoulder. “You heard me, right? You’ll go, you’ll find a gift for Mamá?”

He nodded his head yes.

“And you won’t be late to meet us later?”

He shook his head no.

His sister opened her arms and hugged him tightly, kissing him twice on the cheek before releasing the dark-haired youth. He covered his mouth with his hands to hide his smile as his sister draped his shoulder-bag over him and spun him around towards the door. “Get going, go, go! Have fun, go outside, enjoy St. Jordi! Don't forget Francesca is meeting you at the museum at three, yes?”

He waved from the landing, a tiny motion with his arm held close to his body, his shoulders hunched.

“And try to make friends!”

The door closed.

Miquel turned up his collar, moving slowly down the sidewalk. He hugged the shops which lined the streets of Barcelona, shying away from patrons and shopkeepers who shouted out jovially towards him. He stood and watched a street-play for a little while and seemed to have more energy after the closing lines, slipping away amidst applause with his purpose for the day renewed.

What rose should I get for Mamá? The brown-eyed boy wondered as he hovered by a simply-decorated stall bursting with bright flowers. Red, of course, as scarlet as the blood of the dragon St. Jordi had slain—but orange as tiger-fur, and white as morning dawn, and yellow as—

“Oh, you like that one? Three euros!”

Miquel jumped. He covered his mouth with both hands unconsciously, staring wide-eyed at the shopkeeper. He’d been touching the roses, gently running the tips of his fingers over the tasseled grass and ribbons as he contemplated, enjoying how they felt in his hands. Panicked and unsure, he fished in his pocket and pulled out the change. The shopkeeper handed him the yellow rose and wished him well. Miquel turned and walked away as quickly as he could, eyes stinging, heart pounding from the interaction.

He looked down at the yellow rose. Mamá likes red, he thought with regret, twirling the stem in his fingers. Well, there are many stands with red roses. It will not be hard to find. The idea of another interaction made his heart quail, however, and he ducked his head and bit his lip. Too much, too much...

He swished the rose in his hand a little, as if it were a blade, and looked down at his fingers.

The boy had moved away from the worst of the crowds now, wandering down a quieter part of the festivities. The huge book-stands with the authors signing he had steered clear from, but something here caught his attention. Chapbooks, small and neat, smelling of dust and age (and of character.)

Miquel browsed through them guardedly, hunching down to make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible. What is that one? The title looked especially promising, but was too far away for him to pick up and examine unnoticed.

He peeked longingly over the stacks of thin books and accidentally caught the eye of the red-haired girl behind the stand. He snatched up one of the poetry pamphlets and flipped it open to cover his face as quickly as he could, in such a hurry that he opened it upside-down.

 

The stream of people shortened after a while. Alejandra slipped a relieved sigh. It happened every St.Jordi, you set the stall for people to come first but then the clients start wavering. While scooping the last earned euros into the Hello Kitty safebox, she casually catched sight of something among the latest wave. Or better said - someone.

Near the furthest corner by the side there was a boy in the lookout to the nearest books. She didn't find nothing outstanding about him - he looked in fact, rather plain. His dark brown hair was cut short short rjust like it was once shaven bald from having gone to military, but he certainly wasn't the type (too gauntly to be sane, too flimsy on the limbs). What it struck more about were those somewhat chestnut-y, sheepish round eyes. They made him look like a parakeet.

Oh! Eye contact! Eye contact! Alejandra barely lifted her brows. He was looking at her!

Wait, no what is he...?

Oh no no. Boy. That's not how you use a phamplet to cover up.

"Hola guapo!" greeted Alejandra in Catalan, dusting her likewise yellow dress and moving front to front to the tall guy. "Can I help you? You taking a look, want a book?" She leaned forward adorably and took a sneaky peek at the upside-down letters. "Oor maybe some love poems for the girlfriend?"

 

No, no, no-no-no. He hadn’t wanted to be noticed. Miquel just wanted to blend in. There was nothing special about him, nothing unusual, nothing that should draw the eye over anyone else browsing the bookstand. It was his own fault that he’d caught her attention. He should have kept his head down.

Weep. He pulled pamphlet closer to his face as the girl in the yellow dress (yellow, like the sun! Yellow, like the flag! Like his rose!) leaned towards him. The warm tickle of his own breath against the paper was just a tiny bit comforting as his limbs locked in place, frozen in dismay.

She came so close, he could have touched her.

He started to back away, realized he was still holding one of her pamphlets (one of her wares) and stopped like he’d hit a brick wall, hands jerking out as if to set the little poetry volume down. At the same time, he desperately wanted to hold onto it (he needed something! Something to cover up his face!) and his arms jerked, torn between warring desires.

Had it not been for her next comment, he might have just dropped it and fled, creating a bizarre scene and extremely unnatural interaction. As it was, the boy’s brown eyes peeked back over the front cover, brightening. For my girlfriend?

Miquel giggled.

It wasn’t in a creepy way. It was an honest sound, youthful and childlike. Still covering his face with the pamphlet, he waved his rose at her. Yellow—like her dress, like the sun, like the flag. Hardly the most romantic color! Of course, not good for Mamá either. That did make him sad again. He would still need to talk to someone else today before he met his sister at Casa Batlló.

The tall customer nodded at the girl, the red-haired girl (red like dragon’s heartblood! And the flag! And Mamá’s favorite roses!) and tiptoed down to the other end, where he’d seen the book with the promising title. Very slowly (as if she might lunge towards him and bite!) he reached out the hand that wasn’t covering his face to pick the chapbook up.

Oh! His eyes lit up. Miquel was so excited he actually put the pamphlet down to pull the little handbook closer to his face, eyes growing wider and wider as he scanned it. Principles of Spanish Swordsmanship! And more—annotations, handwritten by someone (someone unknown! Someone real, someone clever and strong!) on every page. Corrections, suggestions.

So absorbed was Miquel that he didn’t even budge when another person came up from behind and bumped slightly against him, slipping a hand into his shoulder-bag. "Naturally, you must expect me to attack with Capoferro…"

Consumed by the text, Miquel spread the fingers of his right hand, the trigger motion used to open Rook’s palm menu. As he did, he dropped the yellow rose on the ground. Oh… a-ah, I forgot. Slowly coming back, the boy stooped to retrieve the flower. As he did, the pickpocket behind him swiftly turned and began to walk casually away, blending back into the St. Jordi festival crowd.

 

Huh? What an amusing reaction. Contrary to whatever Alejandra could have expected from that gangly figure, the boy began to giggle. But it wasn't the kind of giggle that boys used to flirt, or to hide away a crack on their oh-true-manliness - more like a genuine, high-pitch-like giggle. Just like when a girl laughs at joke from the boy she fancies. The softness of his features didn't help to diminish that impression - he really looked and sounded like a girl.

The girl-tall-man finally gave her a nod and tiptoed away, just at the opposite side of the stall. It struck odd to Alejandra how the guy didn't even utter a word. Maybe she had nudged him too hard after all? Was he the kind of being so shy that he wouldn't even talk? Or was he simply a mute? Seriously, good luck for whoever who hooked with that guy. They must have really interesting conversations.

Anyway, Alejandra pretended not to care and sat again on her throne, her blank stare now again into space. Not even in her wildest daydreamings would have she imagined to have a pickpocketing happening right in her face. She didn't even think about it, the safe box under her arm and the cloth-bag secluded between the legs. As long as she was the one safe, the rest of the world didn't matter.

Then, out of curiousity, she turned her chin and peeked at the tall girl-boy again. He was now sucked into a book, its aspect dustier than a mountain trail and covers old as the time of El Cid. The whole aspect rang a bell to Alejandra's mind and thought she might have seen it somewhere. Then, when he held the book slightly up and made it a little more visible, Alejandra leaned closer to read its cover.

No. This was a nightmare. It couldn't happen, it didn't happen. Why in the earth was that book doing in there? Why was it, the treasure of her illusions, thrown right to the trash like some plebeian-crap?! She had everything there. She had from her full name, to her favourite mandoble techniques, to her invented scenarios, to her secret footwork... and even these random archery stances hiding between the pages, doodled and detailed in the scraps of a torn paper. No pun intended, anyone who read it would look into her soul like an open book.

She grippled tight at the cloth on her chest and glared at the boy with the vice of an harpy. Thankfully he might had not got to see this gruesome side - he casually had to pick his lovely rose, that had just decided to fall down. Her left and right brain hemispheres pumped in violent drumming all sorts of trickeries to steal the handbook from his behalf. Maybe if she cornered him again, he would...

"Ah? Oh no!" Faking to having just spot him, she jumped out of her seat and hurried close to his presence. "What a whack. I didn't know there was such a tattered book here on display." Her brows bent between a shadow of distress and pity. "Our books are better than that. Sorry, we'll retrieve it immediately."

Seriously, Sandy? Creating a fuzz over an old book when all the others are the same? "Sheesh, it's the first thing I've come up with! Just... shut up and follow my lead, okay?!"

 

So detailed! So intricate! Miquel held the covers of the chapbook the way a dying man holds the hands of the person at his bedside, he looked at its pages the way someone who expected rainy weather all week finally peeks outside and sees a clear summer day. A treasure found on the streets at St. Jordi!

It did not even occur to the tall boy that reading without buying might be rude or offensive. Entranced, he stood and flipped through its pages, reading text and annotations both. It was a warrior’s cornucopia, with everything from broadswords to bows.

Who is this warrior poet? Miquel thought, amazed, as he flipped back to the front of the book to see if an author or a name was listed. There!—Alejandra Garcia, faded but legible as every word she’d written. He paused for just a minute, surprised it was a woman, and was bringing the book closer to his face to make sure he hadn’t misread when the redhead behind the bookstand made her move.

His eyes stretched wide in a silent scream and he cringed back, gaze darting wildly to the other customers suddenly looking at him. He clutched the book tight to his face as he did, shaking his head fervently. No, no! It's not tattered at all! The book was fine, it was good and aged and smelled of swords and secrets. He turned his back quickly on the others at the stand, anxious to hide from their eyes, and came face-to-face with the girl instead. Oh no, she wants it back… But it didn’t matter what its condition was! He could still buy it, yes? Then she couldn’t take it away!

Miquel leaned away from Alejandra, still stubbornly holding onto the book and using his greater height to his advantage in trying to keep it away from her. Just… have to stretch… His other hand reached back into his shoulder-bag, searching for his wallet. Yes, take his coins! He had enough euros! He had more than enough money for one small book, one important book, one battered book not good enough to have on display!

But where the boy's fingers reached, they found nothing but an empty space.

Panicked, Miquel snapped the book shut and clutched it to his chest, scurrying around the red-haired girl and still shaking his head insistently. He didn’t understand why she was so persistent! It didn’t even occur to Miquel that her story might be just a cover. He stood firm with the book held tightly to his chest, immovable (he still wanted to run away with it, to run away from her, but the attention this would cause—a thief, a thief in the square!—was far too great).

And then—he tilted his head to the side. It was an almost-birdlike motion, an almost-tic that made the brown-eyed boy seem somewhat owlish. As if the idea was just dawning on him, he tapped the book, then pointed at the girl in the yellow dress. What if this… is Alejandra? He raised his brows, making his gesture clearly a question, and tapped the cover again. Is this yours? Not hers-to-sell, not hers-to-display—hers as written, hers as scribed. Surely not! Surely?

 

The boy answered with the stubborness of a donkey. He looked up to her as if the claim was shooted out of nowhere, then darted to the sides, hug the book right to his face and didn't let it go no matter what happened. Alejandra's inners glared daggers of irritation at the tall lanky man, her patience fading at a wick's burning speed. Couldn't he see she was asking with a gentle, humble caring tone?

"What's the matter?"

She forwarded her palm to retrieve the book. But the guy wouldn't budge. As his other hand reached to the bag by his shoulder, he stretched the book as up as she could ever reach. She tiptoed and tried to grasp and started scratching the air. The boy was tall, really tall - he didn't seem that tall from the other side of the stall. It was a kind of amusing scene to see - the cool spoiled brat being teased by the shy lanky mute boy.

But then, the boy changed his tactic. He snapped the book shut just by Alejandra's face. She blank a few times. Lowered the arm, and stepped back, contemplating the boy's antics in this state of impression. He left the bag alone, clutched the book to his chest yet kept shaking his head. Something was wrong. Alejandra could somehow sense it, but it was getting to her nerve.

"Are you sure you wanna keep it? See that it's greasy and crumbly, and it's doodled all over the place. You won't even be able to read it, seriously."

He then stopped shaking his head, looked back at her and tilted it to the side in a nearly impossible contorsion. His round eyes went flat wide like two brown chestnuts. A chill threatened Alejandra's fold-armed stance. He gestured to the book then towards her, then back to the cover. Alejandra didn't get it at first but at the second tap she noticed her own name by his fingertips. Cheeks flushed the brightest of reds, her lower jaw began to tremble in uncomprehensible syllabes.

"No, I'm not--... I don't do this kind of--... I--..."

A few nearby books trembled at the hard table slam.

"Gosh, I don't get you! What's your problem?! Just say something or I call the police!"

Then an angrier voice rowled from the crowd.

"ALEJANDRA!"

A woman made her appearence with the stride of a graceful swan. She was moderately tall, taller than Alejandra but shorter than the boy, her hair short and white, arranged in a neat melene cropped short at the back of her neck. Two pearl-like earrings shimmered bright from the hangs of her ears. She came in with this expensive-looking neat blouse, long tube trousers and sleek shiny shoes. Icy eyes glared frost at Alejandra, who was already backening from her like a scared cat.

"May I know what on the earth is happening here? What are those cries? Do you think that's the way you're supposed to treat your clients?

Alejandra frowned a bit and deviated her gaze.

"No, mamá." she recited. She stared intently at her leg-clawing nails. "It's just, he's been clinging to this book without paying it. He's been making these weird gestures, but he won't even talk."

"It's that all?"

Alejandra gulped and gave a nod.

"Then I don't want to hear you anymore. That's not a reason to cause such a scandal."

The mother gave a sly eye to her down-eyed daughter, then she relaxed her attitude to the guy.

"I am deeply sorry for the hard time that's given you the disaster of my daughter. She is always causing trouble." said the mother, seeking something into her handbag. "You do want this book, don't you?"

Alejandra glanced up to her mother's hand. Why was she offering him pen and paper?

 

Just a book…

It was just a book!

(But if it was just a book, why did he not just give it back?)

He jumped at the sound as she hit the table, still clutching the little volume to his chest. He wasn’t the only one—other people browsing the stand were also startled, their chatter stopping as they turned to stare at the girl, the yellow-dress, the red-hair, the book-seller-book-thief. So angry. What did he do wrong? Was this because he wasn’t-talking?

Sometimes Miquel’s relatives got angry at him, slammed things at the dinner table like this girl. But they shouted at Mamá and Papá, not him; they shouted things like He’s not normal and Do something about it already but they never said it to Miquel. He just looked at his plate and picked at the parts he didn’t want. Because he didn’t speak, he wasn’t spoken to. If words were swords he was unarmed, and even older-people had honor in their combat. As long as he was quiet, he was safe.

I just wanted the book…

He stared at her mutely, shocked.

What was this stinging, this burning in his eyes? (Oh! Tears, collecting at the corners) He wiped them with the backs of his hands. He felt like his heart was plunging, down, down, down.

Very gently, as if reaching towards an animal he was scared might bite, Miquel set the book back on the table. He closed the cover, hiding the name again which had made her tremble, had filled her cheeks with color. And he began to back away.

The shout made him startle and he froze again like a quail caught in the brush, heart hammering, eyes wide. That name! So it was, so it was—Miquel’s mind was racing, yes, as the fancy woman came over and began to scold her daughter. It was happening again, they were talking about him (not to him!) but even so his heart was pounding, pounding at the memory of being seen—

See me…

Miquel took the writing supplies dumbly from the woman. On the paper, his hand started to shake. You want this book, don’t you? Yes, yes, his heart seized upon that thought! This woman would give it to him, sell it to him (if he could just find his wallet) and there was nothing that red-haired girl who’d scared him and shouted at him and seen him (see me!) could… do…

His brown eyes drifted past the woman to the girl (to Alejandra, her notations, her drawings!) with her eyes on the ground and her pride in pieces. Understanding was finally dawning on him, coming up as if from underwater as realization widened his eyes.

Slowly, Miquel shook his head.

If that wasn’t clear enough the first time, he shook it again more fervently. He glanced again at Alejandra. He wrote awkwardly with quick pen-strokes, bumpy cursive braced against the palm of his hand. No, gràcies. No tinc canvi. A lie (so far as he knew!) but a mercy as well, an excuse, an apology...

His hands shook so much on the last word that he almost dropped the paper itself as he handed it and the pen back to the woman, ducking his head quickly to avoid meeting her eyes. He looked every bit as ashamed as her daughter, fingers twisting nervously around his rose.

 

But the boy shook his head.

"No?"

Both Alejandra and other people looked up in blinking amazement. The boy repeated the head shake, more fervently than the time before. He looked down at the paper and scribbled something with a fairly trembling pulse. Handed it back, the mother read it in deep thought.

"Mm, ja veig."

Right the next moment, she placed the writing tools by the table and started a calm pace towards the spot he was occupying before backing off. Alejandra fidgeted her legs at having her mother so close, smelling her luxurious rose perfume. Passing her nail-polished hand through the historical novels, the woman came to find the source of all troubles and scooped it up between her palms.

"Well, then you may have it for free." she told the boy, her tone noting a professional assertiveness. "After all this trouble it wouldn't be fair to make you pay for it." Extending the book right before his nose. "It's all on us. Et sembla bé?"

Alejandra grimaced as she felt a thrust in her cold shrinking heart. It couldn't be. Were they going to do it? Was it really necessary?

 

Fingers twisting together, mutely, Miquel waited for the verdict. He was unsure—should he leave? No, not when they were talking. This woman (with her pearls! And her rose-perfume! And her demeanor, firm as a new paperback!) was too bold. His weak excuse did not satisfy her, and it left Miquel floundering for what to do.

Pressing his hands together as if in prayer he held them to his lips, pinching the tip of his nose and gently cupping his palms around his face. He took a deep breath, eyes watering. Calm, Miquel—stay calm, do not run—

A-ah, what was this?

His eyes crossed to look at the chapbook, so close to his face. She was offering it to him. For nothing. Miquel’s eyes traveled up to the woman’s face, her stern expression, her assertiveness. There would be no questions. There would be no bartering or coins exchanged. (He did not know much, and he did not know her, but he knew that tone of voice! Miquel, too, had a Mamá: and he knew what that look meant!)

Meekly, he took the book.
(Because he wanted it.)

Miquel clutched it to his chest, glad despite everything, and hugged it tightly. Oh! But he was happy. It would be hard not to see that, to not see the surprise and gratitude on his face (and the guilt, too, like an open book.) He nodded eagerly, feeling tears prick at the corners of his eyes again, and ducked his head. Thank you, thank you, thank you, he prayed in pure relief.

Looking at the red-haired girl again, however, he wanted to crawl away and hide under a rug, or under a building! What was he supposed to do? He made sad eyes at her, trying to communicate his apology. I tried! I am sorry! (But not too sorry) It wasn’t as if he could give it back with her mother standing right there, even if he wanted to! He wished he could at least give her something—

The thought flowed as naturally and recklessly as Rook fought. The tall boy suddenly leaned forward to pick up the pen and paper again, scribbling a few words. Half-crumpling the note it in his hand, Miquel stepped close to Alejandra, thrusting out the yellow rose he’d been carrying. He nodded to it, pushing it forward again almost insistently. Take it! Please! His eyes were as desperate as they were sheepish, biting his lip. (At no point, however, did he offer back the book still cradled close against his ribcage.)

As he held out the simple yellow blossom, he passed the scrap of paper as well.

Lo devolveré.

miqueltorres@gmail.com​

I'll give it back. His face as red as the roses in the stands, Miquel looked away, the flower still trembling in his fingertips.

 

There is no turning back, nothing can change what is done. Alejandra saw it with her very own eyes. In front of her, the slow-motion of the dusty pages passing from the elder's hand to the youngsters'. It was real. Too real to deny the truth.

Alejandra gulped at the invisible shard clawing further into her chest. The saliva stung like a gulp of three thousand needles. Almost feeling a strange substance in her corners she shut her eyes as the nails clawed viciously on her legs. A little deeper and she would have sprouted a bundle of crimson.

Then she slowly, cowardly, resentfully looked back. The boy was staring right into her eyes.

There was this perverted sentimentality in his big, round, awkwardly shining brown stare. A very different feeling from the cringing motionlessness when she looked at them at the last time (oh, it had been such an eternity!). She smelled some kind of mercy and repent, enough embarassing to make her look at another point of the square. Half-crumbling the note in his hand, the boy stepped towards her and she noticed a vague bundle by the corner of his eyelids. It was to see her face when she discovered the yellow rose right on her nose.

"For me?"

For the tone, one could tell she was giving him the odd look. The boy nodded insistently and pushed the bundle forward. She was totally clueless -- she didn't know how to think, nor to feel. So letting herself guide by the common rules of etiquette and the hundreds of expecting eyes (her mother's included), she forwarded her palm and muttered a:

"Thank you."

She awkwardly brung the rose next to her and admired its odd expiring beauty. A yellow petal fell as she held the whole bulb close to the nose, minor drops running down the stem. While somewhat tattered, it had been reaped fresh.

She stopped all pretense as she noticed the paper scrap.

Lo devolveré.

miqueltorres@gmail.com​

To which, put the rose to a side, she took her pen and scribbled another back.

Más te vale.
alejandramagna@gmail.com

Then, cradled the rose to her chest, she tilted her head and managed to draw a pretty weak smile.

"Bon Sant Jordi."

 

If the pearl-necked woman who had gifted Miquel the little book saw anything—noticed the two young people scribbling notes, saw the rose leave his hands and pass to hers— she said nothing. Her silence was a window, an open door, a space to breathe for Miquel to escape.

The flower in Alejandra’s hands was butter-gold. It said, “Thank you.” It said “I’m sorry.” And since Miquel did not leave a reply, just carefully folded the note and stowed in his empty pack (Oh, Francesca would be angry when she found he’d lost her change!) it also said “I promise.”

No more! Miquel left with his vow, his volume, a quickly-turning figure who quickly walked away and quickly disappeared back down the street.

Banners, flying from the balconies. A street-play, lines and sonnets called into the crowd. A stall filled with flowers bright as freshly-dipped paintbrushes, each beckoning with hidden messages and meanings.

(Later, Miquel would learn that yellow roses were the color for friendship.)

The silent boy held the book against his nose. He breathed in the scent—of pages and of promises—and smiled from behind the cover.

Bon Sant Jordi, Alejandra.

fin.​