I start running my fingers up and down the ceramic vase. The friction of my nails against it conjures a noise like distant wind. Up and down, up and down. The stunning blood red bloom escapes my notice. I’m proud of not looking at it. I can’t see the water in the vase but I imagine it’s rippling behind its black wall, insignificant to all but the spiky stem slowly sucking its cool liquid.
I’m thirsty. I’m jealous of the flower.
The most beautiful flower in existence, its oil is worth its weight in gold. Nobility in cultures spanning the globe valued tiny vials of it. Princesses soaked in ornate baths strewn with fragrant petals. I try to swallow but my throat is still parched. My nails are still dragging across the vase, making me think of black sand. But my finger pads bear no tiny midnight granules infiltrating…
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