Saoirse Killion ’21
Joli pretty with his siren eyes, he assumes a languid pose by rich candlelight, letting his fingertips rest gently on the bruised apricots and rotting cherries sulking in the kitchen fruit bowl. “Putridity” he jots down in his yellowing notebook. His script is half cursive, half print: pretty. Carefully his fingers glide across the vague spherical shapes, and he places his quill between parted pink lips, sighing. He knows every strange contour, every imperfection so well. So well it’s unsettling. I thought he was a Romantic but I found him perusing endless volumes of chemical structures and anatomy late last night. he’s pretty, studying everything with an acute and apathetic eye. He says few words to me, yet each one I cherish like the cherry blossom petals he presses between translucent dictionary pages. He says they’re for study—botany— I wish I could convince myself otherwise. He caresses the paper-thin florets tenderly, caring sweetly for (sweet) nothings, noting how the pink fades to brown along the feathery edges. He copies down a reaction, then sketches the flower petals meticulously. That much detail: it could be artistic! Pensive and quiet, he wades carefully through his analyses. By the kitchen candlelight I fall for him. he looks at me, so prettily, closes his textbook and places down his quill. There’s a fine stroke of ink lining his lips, melting into lavender in the deep depressions of his sour mouth. Pinpricks of starlight threaten the thin cotton drapes He vainly concealed his studies with. He takes a delicate, pretty sip of cold midnight tea. 24
