Lining the arched columns up top is an abundance of flora. Spider plants and ivies; large devil's and grape's. Greenery spreads throughout the ceiling, cascades down the walls, stopping only to let light through multi-paned windows. Count half a second and see a black veil slip across one. From one side of the window to the other.
On the inside of the greenhouse, Chodayu slows down by a group of poinsettias. Runs the tip of her finger across a blood red bract. An overwhelming contrast of scarlet upon porcelain skin. It takes her attention away from the flower, but only momentarily for — count another second, and — she looks up. Over the greenery and timber and clutter of colors, something paler exists. Something gentler. Painted and textured like snow are gardenias. And they sit just a few rows down, and they beckon to a woman who's been beckoned for the better part of her life.
She easily pulls away, easily moves down the aisle towards her new target of interest. Silent heels; a lowered chin, as though it weren't plants she approaches but a table awaiting tea and a score of the Gion Kouta. Rounds the corner of a table. Slinks by a crown of alabaster, and —
... pauses.
A crown of alabaster; a head crowned by a handsome field of gardenias, and yet... eyes the color of woe.
Slightly — ever so slightly — her head angles. Not enough to peel curtains of jade from her face, but just enough for the boy to know she means her words for him:
"Please forgive my intrusion, but. Are you alright?"
Spoken just barely above a whisper.
—
wc 270
On the inside of the greenhouse, Chodayu slows down by a group of poinsettias. Runs the tip of her finger across a blood red bract. An overwhelming contrast of scarlet upon porcelain skin. It takes her attention away from the flower, but only momentarily for — count another second, and — she looks up. Over the greenery and timber and clutter of colors, something paler exists. Something gentler. Painted and textured like snow are gardenias. And they sit just a few rows down, and they beckon to a woman who's been beckoned for the better part of her life.
She easily pulls away, easily moves down the aisle towards her new target of interest. Silent heels; a lowered chin, as though it weren't plants she approaches but a table awaiting tea and a score of the Gion Kouta. Rounds the corner of a table. Slinks by a crown of alabaster, and —
... pauses.
A crown of alabaster; a head crowned by a handsome field of gardenias, and yet... eyes the color of woe.
Slightly — ever so slightly — her head angles. Not enough to peel curtains of jade from her face, but just enough for the boy to know she means her words for him:
"Please forgive my intrusion, but. Are you alright?"
Spoken just barely above a whisper.
—
wc 270