Sweet Mint & Apricots

You will wake up and notice your bed feels sticky and warm like a candy that’s been left for too long under the sun. You’ll feel puddles of sweat in the back of your neck, your chest, your legs. All wet. You’ll stare up at the ceiling, the once white paint cracked by the years, like a trail of veins on an old woman’s leg, mould growing in the corners, creeping up as if no one could see it. But you do.

It takes a moment for you to remember where you are, the foreign mattress, the foreign pillow. You’ll remember you took a train the day before, fearing the worst, and sat next to a young woman. You’ll remember her dark hair, long and wild like the branches of an old, towering tree, you’ll think of her blue eyes, her plump lips, the mole on her cheekbone. You’ll remember the smell of her skin, like apricots and sweet mint, the warmth and softness of it. You had never seen a woman like her. You’ll see her staring at you, fixed in you, wrapped in you. Like staring at the ocean for the first time.

You’ll look to your side and see a window and a bird, small and dark blue. You’ll wonder what bird it is, if it sings. You’ll see it’s feathers dirty and unkept, patches of skin that reflect, like a broken glass, the sunlight. Your feet will touch the ground and the bird will fly away, every step you take towards the door will feel like a step closer to her. You don’t know the house but you’re sure she’s somewhere near. Sweet mint and apricots.

You close your eyes and see a woman, lying in her bed, white, so white her skin is one with the sheets. Her hair like snow melting away, her eyes closing. Sweet mint and apricots. Your eyes swing back open and there she is, holding your face, staring at you. You feel the grass touching your feet, bugs crawling up your legs, her breathing near your face.

“Are you alright?” You’ll ask her, worried she might need help. She’ll smile.

You’ll look at her hands and wonder if you imagined the rivers of blood flowing from her skin, if they were ribbons or threads. You’ll fear the worst.

“Coffee?” She’ll ask you and you’ll nod yes. She’ll pour a stream of hot, pure coffee into a mug, the sound of a waterfall will overcome you and you’ll think you’re somewhere in South America, with the sun in your skin and green all around you. And blue birds.

“Thank you” you’ll say, “I’m sorry but I don’t think you ever said your name”

“I haven’t. it’s Carla”

“Good morning, Carla”

She’ll stand up and walk calmly towards a table. Her dress will flow with the wind, her hair will dance. She’ll float.

“Did you sleep well?”

Her voice, as deep as you remember will pull you to her. You’ll follow her lead and sit by the table. Two empty cups will be there, waiting for you to fill them up.

“I did” I think. You cant remember how you fell asleep or if you dreamt. A vague memory of skin and heat will touch your fingertips, you’ll feel the moment linger just out of reach, you’ll extend your hand to grab it but you hit the cup.

“Coffee?” She’ll ask you and you’ll nod yes.

“Thank you” you’ll say, “I’m sorry but I don’t think you ever said your name”

“I haven’t. It’s Carla”

“Good morning, Carla”

You’ll look towards the house and see a maze, the walls appear endless and twisted, roots crawling their way up to the ceiling. You’ll see a window and a blue bird.

“Did you sleep well?”

Sweet mint and apricots. You’ll see a bed through the window, big and old, and two bodies wrapped, twisted, endless. You’ll see dark hair like branches of an old, towering tree, plump lips, chaos.

“I did”

You’ll remember you where in a white room, in front of a white bed. You’ll feel the cold, breeze of death, the emptiness of loss, hungry like a pit demanding sacrifice. You’ll be afraid.

“Will you stay for lunch?” Carla’s voice will bring you back, her eyes will catch the light and you’ll swear they are translucent, they’ll be like the sky, you’ll count clouds on them.

You will think of the train, how she sat in front of you, how you didn’t know where you were headed. You’ll see yourself run across the city, puddles of new rain smashing around you. You’ll think of that bed, that melting snow, those veins.

“I would like to”

She is staring at you. Carla. Carla is staring at you and you wonder what she sees, if she sees. She will stand up and float towards you, she’ll hold your face with her honey hands and kiss you. The blue bird will fly away.

“Do you breed them?”

“What?”

“The birds”

She’ll look at you surprised, her lips parted as if her words where lint stuck in her throat and she could get them out. You’ll fear the worst. Finally she’ll say:

“There are no birds here”

Carla will get up and walk back inside. You will see her face change, her eyes like ink and smoke will leave you cold. Your hands will sweat.

You’ll think maybe it’s better to leave, feeling you’ve overstayed your welcome but you don’t know where you are. You’ll see the cups and notice they are cracked, a piece is missing from each of them. You’ll look back at the window hoping to see her enter the room but she doesn’t. The bed is empty, white and cold. You’ll feel the wind blow dust in the air, leaves will fall from the trees like ribbons caught in a storm, the air will feel pregnant with the coming tempest. The cups will fall and shatter.

You’ll rush to pick up the pieces and feel a sharp slice in your palm. You’ll smell of warm metal and yearn for sweet mint and apricots.

A drop will fall from the sky, like a suicidal free jump onto your skin. You’ll feel it clinging to your fingers, holding on to them so as to not die in your wound.

The sky bursts and you stay there like a statue afraid to leave and not sure if it can stay. You’ll see your skin whiten and feel your muscles tighten, hardening, rooting. Your heart beats faster, your breathing uncontrolled. You cannot move, you fear the worst. The blue bird flies into your open hand and stops there. It looks at you.

“Come back inside”

You’ll hear Carla scream as she runs outside, her dress like a second, wrinkled skin, her hair limp, stuck to her face. She’ll pick you up and bring you under a roof, safe from the storm. You’ll look back to the garden and see the table with it’s cups full of coffee. You’ll see roots poking out of the grass, like veins on an old woman’s leg, and you’ll see the bird fly away as Carla guides you back inside the endless house.