"I like the peonies, in case you're wondering." And who wouldn't? They are, gathered there in their dazzling little bushels, beautiful and dollish and syrupy sweet. Perhaps even perfect, if one dared to ask him. Or even better yet, angelic in droves. Cường knows. The dreamer works away, their silhouette bobbing slow with the breeze, and they're white like biting snowcaps, as pale as the winter, cozying like velvet and cotton fleece. It's hard to spurn their beauty, not difficult to eye them, and in his task of concoting some ointment, he gives them his focus. They seem to quite like them. His eyes gleam black. "You know, maybe you should stop staring already and give them to someone to brighten up their day," he not so cleverly says. "That someone could be me." How presumotuous, this man! "I think, in my opinion, I've more than earned it."
open.
