malcolm: “you know, the first time i really noticed flowers was at a funeral. my grandmother on my father’s side. i was... five, maybe six years old.”
jessamine: “i’m sorry to hear that, mal.”
malcolm: “it’s okay. i don’t remember much about her and we weren’t ever close. ...maybe that makes me sound cold. or uncaring.”
jessamine: “no, i don’t think so. i get that.”
malcolm: “well, my parents never cultivated a garden. if you can believe that. quite honestly, i am under the impression that all plants we ever had were plastic.”
jessamine: “that’s just sad.”
malcolm: “yeah. so there i was, a kid. i didn’t understand much, but i knew that it was my grandmother there but beyond me somehow. and i’d never be able to bridge that gap. and there were flowers. ...and this scent--sweet, almost nauseating really. only years after the fact did i realize it was there to mask something else.”
jessamine: “you were only a child, mal.”
malcolm: “i’m told i wasn’t the sharpest child.”
jessamine: “you weren’t supposed to know those things.”
malcolm: “i guess you’re right about that.”
jessamine: “still... sorry i made you go there.”
malcolm: “i did it myself, didn’t i? it’s okay.”
jessamine: “thanks for indulging me, then.”
malcolm: “i am freezing, though.”
jessamine: “oh! sorry...”
