flora
Flora huffs out a theatrical sigh, tipping her head toward him with an expression that screams heathen as much as it does affectionate menace. "Clearly, you're not fluent in love," she snipes, arching a brow like she’s disappointed in him and all of romance itself. "And obviously there are hate languages. They’re just, like, love languages in drag. You know what they say about there being a fine line between love and hate?. Quality time but make it competitive. Physical touch but it’s wedgies and pinching."
Her hand flinches at the ticklish brush of petals and she immediately retaliates, reaching over and giving him a firm swat to the thigh without so much as glancing up. "Excuse you—why wouldn’t I get to be a ghost?" she demands, voice full of incredulous scandal, like he’d just suggested she wouldn’t be allowed into a members-only club she obviously founded. "You think the afterlife can handle this amount of unresolved drama just sitting around? I’m prime haunting material."
The thought of her hypothetical husband keeling over from grief makes her pause, though—just long enough for an almost-sincere little wrinkle to form between her brows. But then she shakes her head going full kombucha girl about it. "Nah. I wouldn't want someone to die of a broken heart because of me. If a man just crumbles without me, I’ve clearly picked the wrong one."
The flower is snatched with practiced grace, and she tucks it neatly beside the others before rising and padding to the next grave. A grin curls at the corner of her mouth as she glances back at him, eyes glittering. "‘brb’ is gonna be my last word(s), dummy. I’d never waste that kind of poetry on vows."
Her hand flinches at the ticklish brush of petals and she immediately retaliates, reaching over and giving him a firm swat to the thigh without so much as glancing up. "Excuse you—why wouldn’t I get to be a ghost?" she demands, voice full of incredulous scandal, like he’d just suggested she wouldn’t be allowed into a members-only club she obviously founded. "You think the afterlife can handle this amount of unresolved drama just sitting around? I’m prime haunting material."
The thought of her hypothetical husband keeling over from grief makes her pause, though—just long enough for an almost-sincere little wrinkle to form between her brows. But then she shakes her head going full kombucha girl about it. "Nah. I wouldn't want someone to die of a broken heart because of me. If a man just crumbles without me, I’ve clearly picked the wrong one."
The flower is snatched with practiced grace, and she tucks it neatly beside the others before rising and padding to the next grave. A grin curls at the corner of her mouth as she glances back at him, eyes glittering. "‘brb’ is gonna be my last word(s), dummy. I’d never waste that kind of poetry on vows."
I hope you're wetting your appetite, finding your way into someone's eyes
I hope you're dreaming in black and white, and seeing in colour
I hope you're dreaming in black and white, and seeing in colour
