De lavender garota, Joshua Monet

         The girl with the lavender dress― I can't even begin to understand her. I first met her in the rain. I've always made a habit of taking walks through the rain, the scent in the air, the gentle mist reflected from the ground, the rain is truly beautiful.

         It was a rainy day, but the clouds in the sky were luminous. I walked my usual path, a scenic route around and far beyond the village, eventually reaching a gazebo covered in moss and vines. I would often sit there during storms to write, perhaps that was the grey mantle that I owed my inspiration to. When I had arrived there. I had found a guest, a young girl in a lavender dress. She and her dress were wet to the hem, and she was crying.

         Out of fatherly instinct I tried to ask her the cause of her sorrow, but she shrank away from me into the corner. Now consumed by passion I embraced her, certain this was a dream, and if it wasn't I'd done nothing wrong but try to help a young girl. I honestly expected to be slapped, so when I felt her hand on my face I cringed, until I realized that her tears had stopped and it was now I who was crying. We leaned back against a wall embracing one anothers shoulders until the gentle luminescence of the moon showed herself through the rain, and coaxed us unto sleep, before I completely shut my eyes I asked the girl her name, but she was already asleep.

         I woke up and she was gone. I couldn't bear a reality without her, I condemned my life as some oneirical contraption unworthy of praise, some nightmare! Though I eventually regained my composure, and began walking the path everyday. It had to've been two week's before I saw her again, when I found her again she looked malnourished and was embracing a tree――

         She was unconscious, and obvious hadn't been indoors since I've last seen her, so I gently picked her up, one arm below her knees, one arms supporting her back. However upon moving her I saw what looked to be a grave, the buried only 21 days dead I assumed those were her parents, and that she had arrived at the gazebo at the end of the path looking for the village because she couldn't support herself.

         I carried her gome, and started some kind of potato soup, and tea. I laid her on my bed and myself laid on the floor. Waiting for something― I couldn't help but reflect on her appearance, long wavy black hair, thick eyelashes, blushy cheeks, and a lavender dress with a butterfly pattern on it, she was the most beautiful person I had ever seen, and she was in my house. My awe-full line of thought was interrupted when I realized  that in the time I'd been laying down my soup must be boiling over, but alas it'd only been twenty minutes, my soup was done, and I had forgot to add flame to my tea (Thankfully!).

         As I set the table, the sound must've woke her up. She let out a pained yawn, and sat up to meet my gaze with her own feverish eyes. I asked her if she was hungry, and she looked at me with some combination of excitement and desperation. She barely had a voice, it took all of her strength but she eventually communicated that she'd love to eat. She was weak, as she was, she couldn't even lift her own bowl, or walk to the table. Without discussion I automatically began feeding her by spoon. After each bite, she smiled brightly, she had a good apetite― I found that extremely cute. After the bowl was emptied, she looked at me with pitiful eyes― like a cat in the rain― and pointed at the bowl. I hesitated to give her more, too much food on an empty stomach would make her sick.

         But she began to whine, her cute appetite got the best of me, and so I vegan feeding her another bowl. Near the end of the meal, she put her arms up, yawned, and fell back into my― her― bed.

         And so the days continued, of feeding her three times a day, and sitting by her side writing. Until she was well enough to accompany me on my habitual walks― She too loved the rain. We make our way to the gazebo at the end of the path, oblivious of the fact that we were holding hands. We leaned upon the same spot as on the day we met. Without awareness or auditory accompanyment, tears began streaming down by cheek, I didn't know how many years I'd been alone. And the girl pulled on my hand, and asked me why I was crying, and I said, “Because the sky I once thought to be so beautiful, only grown in beauty with the addition of your smiling face.”

         On the walk home she was blushing, and holding my hand even tighter, When we arrived at home she asked me what we were having for dinner in an upbeat tone, and I said the same thing as always. While eating we say down and had a conversation about who we were, and what we meant to accomplish. And in the end she laid down in the bed, and I on the floor. She looked at me curiously, saying “Isn't this your bed?”