flora
The sun was painting gold across the sea, the water so flat and glassy it looked like the Arclight had forgotten how to ripple. Flora stood barefoot on the deck of her little sailboat, the stained-glass sails catching the light in dazzling bursts of colour—turquoise and amethyst and amber refracted into sea-sky kaleidoscope. With the wind in them, they would’ve looked like living murals, fluttering with poetry. But right now?
Nada. The sails hung limp, wide as her frustration, catching nothing but silence.
"Ugh," she groaned, hands on her hips as she glared up at the sky like it had personally offended her. "Seriously?"" She resisted the urge to channel one of her dads—her pride still far too intact to admit defeat quite that fast. "Fine," Flora huffed, throwing up her hands. "No wind? No problem."
With the kind of put-upon flair only she could muster, Flora pivoted on her heel and padded down into the cabin. The sailboat was snug, charming, and undeniably hers. Lavender curled in the creases of the wood just like Mateo had said it would—stretching out from its starter pot and slowly making itself a part of the ship’s bones.
She changed quickly, shrugging out of her shirt and jeans and into a blue bikini that matched her eyes and absolutely none of her intentions for the day. When she re-emerged, she tossed herself onto a sun-warmed cushion on the deck, one leg kicked over the side and dangling close enough to trail her toes in the water if she wanted. Spice—perched nearby like a smug little personal icecube—sent a stream of cool air swirling around her, just enough to keep the sun from becoming oppressive. "You’re the best," she murmured to her companion, lifting a cocktail glass from where it rested in arm’s reach and taking a lazy sip. The drink was fruity, cold, and strong enough to make this impromptu pause feel slightly less like failure.
Nada. The sails hung limp, wide as her frustration, catching nothing but silence.
"Ugh," she groaned, hands on her hips as she glared up at the sky like it had personally offended her. "Seriously?"" She resisted the urge to channel one of her dads—her pride still far too intact to admit defeat quite that fast. "Fine," Flora huffed, throwing up her hands. "No wind? No problem."
With the kind of put-upon flair only she could muster, Flora pivoted on her heel and padded down into the cabin. The sailboat was snug, charming, and undeniably hers. Lavender curled in the creases of the wood just like Mateo had said it would—stretching out from its starter pot and slowly making itself a part of the ship’s bones.
She changed quickly, shrugging out of her shirt and jeans and into a blue bikini that matched her eyes and absolutely none of her intentions for the day. When she re-emerged, she tossed herself onto a sun-warmed cushion on the deck, one leg kicked over the side and dangling close enough to trail her toes in the water if she wanted. Spice—perched nearby like a smug little personal icecube—sent a stream of cool air swirling around her, just enough to keep the sun from becoming oppressive. "You’re the best," she murmured to her companion, lifting a cocktail glass from where it rested in arm’s reach and taking a lazy sip. The drink was fruity, cold, and strong enough to make this impromptu pause feel slightly less like failure.
The rumors are terrible and cruel
But honey, most of them are true
But honey, most of them are true
