when: after some tea got spilled
where: the row of braeburn trees in the mclaughlin orchard
who: @stoneasher
she knew why she'd done what she'd done. she'd felt the itch hot under her skin, the push to take things too far. see what could be covered, ignored, handled. someone would break, give up. she'd find herself back at the same numb feeling that had blanketed the past few years. her hypothesis would be proven right: no one could truly see her. but this; the photograph that captured and posted, was still a step too far.
her business was her own. the rejection, the hurt that coursed through her. that was for her to keep tempered down, a hum which reminded her that she had been quickly losing control of her own life for months now. she knew if she stayed she would have had to talk to grace, to discuss with saffron. what would she have said? it wasn't her? it wasn't true?
she'd done it alright, and it left her with limited options. who in the world would show up for someone like that? who would walk out into the orchard, finding the rows of trees that were planted when she was born, a little out of place for the climate but hers nonetheless. no one came to the orchard, too far a drive, nothing fun to do. it was a field trip, a joke. even now, her parents were off in some far flung place, leaving the house empty. if anyone cared what she did, they hadn't called to say it.
a six pack of glass bottled ciders had barely been touched, couched in grass and the first of the small fruits which hadn't made it. she kicked the rotted green apple, hearing it roll through the grass, before the rustle of movement that wasn't her own. she'd half hoped, half disbelieved. now, it was all she had, as he turned down the row. "you came?"
