They say there's one thing to remember when it comes to the devils - that they always lie. It's the only truth they ever tell me and the only one they ever tell themselves. I find it sad when they never learn there's a sort of truth in any absolute.
It's spring when you come; a broad shouldered girl in a black turtleneck with eyes whose whites flash black in the most peculiar way. You sit on the bench in front of my little florist’s shop with Dante’s Inferno in your hand which isn't the best book to hide behind considering what you are, but even when you tell me that you didn't know, I don't believe you. I think you meant for me to know.
(It hasn't taken me long to figure out what you are.)
It's the too black eyes and the too sharp teeth and the unblinking gaze you think I don't notice, but while those give me sentences the scarves you wear like you're always cold, the hunch in your shoulders as if you're trying to hide and the weight of the world in your voice when you speak give me pages. I think that soon enough I'll have a book.
(The Devil on My Doorstep would be what I call it.)
It's summer when you shake off your coat and step for the first time into my shop. It's the first time you speak directly to me, and when you do it's to ask a question. You ask me for camellias with fidgeting, scarred hands and a new set to your shoulders, but when I try to hand them to you, you step back with wide eyes and tense jaw. I hesitate; you waver.
(You ask for camellias on the day I have only pink. They mean longing, and I wonder if you know.)
You tug on your scarf, the warm brown of your skin a clear contrast to the fading blue fabric, and ask me if it's odd to ask me to keep them for myself to enjoy. I say no, it isn't, and when you smile with the tips of too sharp, too bright teeth peeking out from your lips, I begin to fall in love.
(They call me crazy. I say they're right.)
It's fall when you finally take a bouquet of daisies into your hands. When I ask you why you're wearing gloves, you say you're allergic, but I know that isn't true because you tell me things in questions when you really want me to know. I know it's because questions aren't lies or truths. But I don't push. Not even when you duck your head and flush as if you want to ask me something you haven't. I hope it's what I think it is, but I don't let myself hope.
(That's a lie. It's in my nature to hope.)
I don't have to pretend to not hope for long. It's the day after that you ask me to dinner, and you're still in gloves when you buy the second bouquet you really touch. The daffodils from yesterday and the daisies from today are both present at dinner, and it's lovely. Like you. I learn that devils can cook, and it's easier now to hear in questions. I know you're grateful even if it's hard to phrase it right for you. I'm more grateful even if it's hard for me to say it aloud.
(You give the daffodils for the sun shining brighter with you and daisies for never telling. I give a fern for magic and forsythia for anticipation.)
It's winter when you disappear, and the world is white and grey and cold. I tell myself that's why you've left. It's because it's too cold for you, and you’ve just gone to hibernate in the warmth of Hell. I say that you forgot to tell me because you were so tired, and it's alright because I and the flowers will be ready for your gloved hands when you return.
(I know I'm lying to myself.)
When I catch you bleeding silver with silver wings and silver horns and silver in your eyes where I thought was brown, you try to leave, but I tell you to stay because I knew, I know, and I love you anyways. I press the crocus I'd clutched in my hands in your ungloved hands. It wilts, and you shake, but I hold you, and say in a cloud of black winged, black horned devils you'd be the silver lining. You laugh. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.
(The crocus stands for the coming spring.)
You ask me if I ever wonder why you always speak in inquiries, and I say I don't because I know how it is for you. You ask me if I resent you for it, and I say I don't because I prefer it to be like this instead of the mix of lies and truths humans give to each other. You ask me why I stay, and I ask you the same in return.
