The village was quiet, any remaining voices reduced to a soft lull as the sun set over the vast multicolor hills on the horizon. The cobblestone streets were washed in orange-gold light, tall shacks casting shadows into the alleys between houses. It was a beautiful day, the closest to a clear sky in weeks. I couldn’t fault the weather, the wet season will happen whether anyone likes it or not. And the clouds were stark white—soft looking, like sugar—so I couldn’t complain about that either.
And what I really couldn’t complain about was being with Romeo. I was lucky to have him here for the day—the whole day—usually I’m lucky to see that man for a couple of hours, at best, with how busy he is. But I wouldn’t think about that, not when we’re sitting together under the warm sun on a soft blanket, watching it set.

   I had plucked dandelions from those sun-soaked hills earlier that evening—they were soft in my calloused hands, yet the petals were strong, the plant undoubtedly in bloom as the sticky pollen got under my fingernails and had to be washed off my fingers. The flowers were almost a shocking shade of yellow, challenging the sun itself with their brightness, but I didn’t gawk at them for too long and eventually returned to our red-and-white checkered blanket settled on the spiky grass,

    I looked next to me, picking up the dandelions and rolling them around in my hands for a few moments. I crossed my legs and got to work, sewing the stems together with precise movements. It was nothing more than a menial task, to me—I’d done it countless times, more than I could recall. I had to bite off the stalk of one particularly long flower, and spluttered as soon as it reached my mouth. I made a sour face that had Romeo laughing, and I glared at him in response. I never understood how people would eat flowers willingly. Once I had finished, I handed the now crafted flower crown to a still giggling Romeo, who took it without question.

    I reached into our picnic basket again and slowly, with careful movements, I poured the tea into our mugs while he placed the crown onto his head. He weaved it into his curly hair carefully, so that no petals would fall out. I almost dropped the teapot when I looked up, biting down on my cheek to stop myself from blushing. He looked like some kind of flower king with it on, something you’d see in a fairytale. All he needed was a golden throne and he’d look the part. Either way, I wouldn’t tell him. That’d be way too embarrassing.

Story by Emerson