the heart is a fruit.
prnatsumeâ:
post-meetings theyâre all free to go. split open and fall apart like pomegranate seeds bursting from a fruit, scattered. kept together at the roots, planted in distant rows. they have their parts to play.
all that said, this place is nice. mama really splurged on the villa, and it certainly beats sitting at home in his tiny studio. maybe if he saved his money he could get a nicer place, but house is not a home, instant ramen is sustenance, yadda yadda yadda. the natural light in this place is great. makes him feel like a sunflower, wobbling and turning to where itâs brightest.
ârohee! come downstairs!â
cardboard all over the dining table, plastic gloves up to his elbows, a knife the size of his arm. durian stinks up the whole house, but thats not his problem. he splits open the fruit, gentle as he pulls out the seeds.
âyou hungry or what?â
the hard work of ripping it open is nothing compared to the taste - sweet and tangy, bursting like color on the tongue. is this what drugs taste like? he wouldnât know. but the anticipation rolls down to his gut. good things are meant to be shared, maybe. at least with pretty girls they are.Â
theyâve been here two years. rohee remembers moving in. remembers skidding down the halls and picking the furthest room down, away from the others. remembers unloading her things. to her name, itâs nothing much. books here and abundance of fidget toys there. bed. dresser. night table. itâs not home. not in the slightest meant to be.
itâs storage unit #3, to be exact.
and admittedly so, even more secure than the first two. given, no one ever enters her room without permission. (sheâs had it wired the day they âmoved inâ anyway). still, precautions are necessary. her âstashâ is carefully hidden away within the depths of her room. brought out only in times like this, when meetings in hq leaves her with a bit of free time.
and here, here is where it gets weird.
here is where, almost routinely, rohee pulls the chest from its hiding space to, tad obsessively, marvel over her spoils. smooth her palms over each and every piece. stolen from faces she cannot place, names sheâs never even heard. pointless, anyway. people leave. objects stay. and rohee holds now, the ticking head of a luxury brand, closer to her heart still than anything else over the last few years.
you need help. liyingâs voice wafts back into her head, swirling and growing in size like expanding smoke. quick to fill her head in a fog, bring her back to previous conversations shared over one velvet chaise.Â
âlike actual help. iâm not âthatâ kind of therapist. ââthis kindâ, âthatâ kind, itâs all the fucking same isnât it?
whatâs wrong with me? in her mindâs eye, liyingâs plum painted mouth opens, tongue armed with an answer they both know she doesnât like. in reality, the resonance of natsumeâs voice filters through the haze, snapping her back to real life. (right. this is real life, rohee. not the cobweb-ridden, depressing dark corner you ignore time and time again in favor of picking out another new hobby. like itâll fucking go away. like it fucking ever will).
âyeah! âm coming!â she calls back, returning the watch to its intended position in her âtreasure chestâ. it only takes a handful of minutes (more longing gazes, then itâs back under lock and key, shoved awayâout of sight and out of mind like most of her problems) before she is padding downstairs. socks sliding over hardwood, toes pivoting toward the kitchen. âwhat?â and again, decisively with more edge. âwhatâwhy do you call my name like iâm your dog?â
it hits before natsume even answers. within seconds of the kitchenâs general vicinity is something deliciously pungent; pleasing to the olfactory organs. oh. durian. king of fruits. ranked in the top five (letâs be real, she only likes about five) in her favorites when it comes to fruit. and specifically, within the crew, there is even a smaller amount of those willing to share the delicacy with her.
she almost wants to take back earlierâs bite in her words. though roheeâs sure natsume wouldnât have minded either way. what was it, year three? four? he hasnât mind yet. so she beelines over with the enthusiasm of a grade schooler when mom makes their favorite. hand reaching out to pluck a juicy morsel off the plate. quick as ever. âwhoaâwhen did you even sneak this in?â the question is posed absently, evidently she does not care for an answer, her attention fixated elsewhere with temptation itself in her hands.Â
her lips part, tongue at the readyâthen stops, suddenly suspicious. âwait,â rohee glances up at him, bony elbow finding his ribs with little difficulty. âwhat is this for?â canât trust anybody in this crew to do any sort of favors for free. rohee herself wouldnât, anyway.
