Blowing Bubbles

Light curled upon the bosoms of the clouds, so impossibly rich and intangible in a soft ruin of majesty. The day spun in circles, the breeze flew with warmth, and the grass was verdant and bright, stung with the aroma of dewdrops.

The earthen tones of her hair swept upon the green blades where she laid, with eyes that belonged in the palette of night and laughter like tomorrow would never come.

He leaned back, his knee covered by the wrinkles of her skirt, weight imprinted on his palms, smiling with everything but his mouth. There was a sliver of the sun that was blinding him, so he made his lids descend in a flurry of sightless euphoria.

"Hey, look." A slight tug, a pull on the toe of his shoe. His gaze landed on her neck, graceful extensions of tendons and bones, a raw array of flesh stretched over them. He followed the path of her arm, a few meters across from their place.

Her fingertip traced some bygone shapes, rainbows trapped in compressed air and soapy water, lifespan of seconds. A shiver, a wind, a touch, and they were gone. A child was creating them nearby, all tousled angel-hair pasta braids and fairy-toothed grins and apples in her cheeks.

For a small while they watched every sphere try its best to reach the heavens, and every single time and every single one brings a wave, then an ocean of grandeur disappointment. (For who? perhaps it doesn't matter) the girl finished up the liquid in this little plastic bottle, hands slippery and fragrant, then was called away by a distant name.

The silence wasn't much of one at all, inhabited by the faint noise of a city harboring on the edges, flutters of tiny butterflies, and the other souls with hours to waste on some lost oasis afternoon.

She broke it first, customary tributes to routine.

"I made wishes."

He settled back down so that their sleeves were grazing the other's, his head cushioned by his wrists. "Hmm?"

She smelled like plants, for laying on them too long.

"On the bubbles."

"What about them?" Words have always been coarse and unused in his throat.

She never seemed to mind. "I was trying to make a wish on each one, before they popped."

His 'why' was unspoken, articulated by the turn of his face to lock with hers, a curl of his lashes and a fading freckle on his nose.

There were curves lifting the corners of her lips. "I figured if the wish made it, it'd come true. I mean, they looked so pretty, so innocent, and there were no stars around. And, actually, stars are made of burning gas and aren't as harmless as they seemed when they weren't so far away. So I thought the bubbles would be kinder."

A spark in his chest, a reminder of exactly what he has, right here and right now, beside him. Like no one else.

"There was only one problem, though."

The arch of a brow, and baited breath. She noticed that one of his buttons was undone and reached over with nimble fingers.

"All the others were fine, but ours didn’t make it. It said we wouldn’t make it." Her tone was deeply troubled and hurt, and he wondered how she refused to let human beings' negative remarks bother her, but succumbed so easily to clear lather and fate.

"Who’re you gonna believe? A bubble, or me?" A beat. The next, a whisper of amusement. "Never mind, don't answer that."

A palm over her heart, and his palm over hers. Barely-a-kiss ghosting over her brow.

A promise, over her wish.

She smiled at her white kind of lie. There’s a memory, of the last bubble, falling gently upon a leaf, bursting just as the wish escaped her mind.

Of course bubbles are kind. They just haven't been given a chance to grant wishes, like stars or birthday candles or people often don't.