Her eyes are a gentle shade of green and her hair is the color of sunflowers bathed in honey. She smells like candy apples.
(—mother smells like sugar, because she bakes every day. She’s always baking. She makes food enough for three people. You like it that she cooks a lot. You’re a growing boy and you love her cooking after all. But you don’t like it when she sets a third plate on the dinner table. You don’t like it. Why can’t she see that you don’t like it? She and you make two people, not three, and the plates keep breaking every time she makes that mistake—)
You date for a full two months before you break up with her. You wince when she shrieks at you, green eyes flashing dangerously, rosy cheeks splashed with hot tears. Her makeup is running. You can’t help but think she’d look much prettier if she didn’t cake herself in the stuff.
It makes you uncomfortable to see her cry. Hell, you don’t like to see women cry, period. Especially if you were the cause of their tears. You’d made mother cry, once, and you still regret it up to this day. The memory of those pretty, gentle green eyes wet with tears, puffy and red, make you feel like a perverse villain.
(—crying green eyes, crying green eyes, that sight used to be so familiar to you—)
It’s the same sight now, green eyes and everything.
But your grades are beginning to slip—most specifically, your grade in English—and you don’t have time for both a girlfriend and a tutor. Practice is important too, of course, though it’ll be awkward from now what with your now ex-girlfriend glaring at your frostily from across the field.
Mother smiles teasingly at you when you tell her the details later. She calls you her little Romeo and you can’t help but roll your eyes, though inwardly you preen at her praise. Your cheeks heat up. She teases you even more because of it.
You think you’re done with girls for a while; you change your mind when you meet with your English tutor the next day. She’s the exact opposite of your first girlfriend, short messy hair, make-up-free face, oval-shaped glasses and all.
Her eyes are a gentle shade of green and her hair is the color of sunflowers bathed in honey. She smells like brand new books and a hundred different brands of lip balm.
Your English grade picks up, you date her for a little over two months, and then she’s crying in a similar manner to your last girlfriend when you broke up with her. It’s as awkward as it was the last time, too.
Making girls cry—pretty girls, with their pretty green eyes and milky white skin—is not one of your hobbies, yet somehow, you always end up on the receiving end of a frosty, bitter, green-eyed glare.
Pretty soon, your football buddies start making catcalls when they see you, and it’s not long before you’re dating again. This time, you’re determined to make it work, your stubbornness kicking in high gear. You take her out on dates every weekend, buy her candy and stuffed bears. She likes the attention; you like it that she smiles instead of cries. Mother cheers you on from the sidelines. The moral support makes you feel more sure of yourself.
(—you’ve never brought any of your girlfriends home to mother. She avoids the topic whenever you ask. Although supportive of your relationships, she gets a fretful little look on her face every time you date someone new. She asks questions every day, about your dates, about what you do, on how you treat them. Her favorite questions is if you like them. You laugh and answer ‘yes’. She makes you promise to treat them right and never make them cry. To be a good man to them. You can’t help but find that last part funny, so very funny, specially when you take into consideration the sorry excuse for a pathetic human being she chose—)
Her eyes are a gentle shade of green and her hair the color of sunflowers bathed in honey. She smells like almonds and cheery blossoms.
KakuRenBo [Prologue part II]
(—mother smells like sugar, because she bakes every day. She’s always baking. She makes food enough for three people. You like it that she cooks a lot. You’re a growing boy and you love her cooking after all. But you don’t like it when she sets a third plate on the dinner table. You don’t like it. Why can’t she see that you don’t like it? She and you make two people, not three, and the plates keep breaking every time she makes that mistake—)
You date for a full two months before you break up with her. You wince when she shrieks at you, green eyes flashing dangerously, rosy cheeks splashed with hot tears. Her makeup is running. You can’t help but think she’d look much prettier if she didn’t cake herself in the stuff.
It makes you uncomfortable to see her cry. Hell, you don’t like to see women cry, period. Especially if you were the cause of their tears. You’d made mother cry, once, and you still regret it up to this day. The memory of those pretty, gentle green eyes wet with tears, puffy and red, make you feel like a perverse villain.
(—crying green eyes, crying green eyes, that sight used to be so familiar to you—)
It’s the same sight now, green eyes and everything.
But your grades are beginning to slip—most specifically, your grade in English—and you don’t have time for both a girlfriend and a tutor. Practice is important too, of course, though it’ll be awkward from now what with your now ex-girlfriend glaring at your frostily from across the field.
Mother smiles teasingly at you when you tell her the details later. She calls you her little Romeo and you can’t help but roll your eyes, though inwardly you preen at her praise. Your cheeks heat up. She teases you even more because of it.
You think you’re done with girls for a while; you change your mind when you meet with your English tutor the next day. She’s the exact opposite of your first girlfriend, short messy hair, make-up-free face, oval-shaped glasses and all.
Her eyes are a gentle shade of green and her hair is the color of sunflowers bathed in honey. She smells like brand new books and a hundred different brands of lip balm.
Your English grade picks up, you date her for a little over two months, and then she’s crying in a similar manner to your last girlfriend when you broke up with her. It’s as awkward as it was the last time, too.
Making girls cry—pretty girls, with their pretty green eyes and milky white skin—is not one of your hobbies, yet somehow, you always end up on the receiving end of a frosty, bitter, green-eyed glare.
Pretty soon, your football buddies start making catcalls when they see you, and it’s not long before you’re dating again. This time, you’re determined to make it work, your stubbornness kicking in high gear. You take her out on dates every weekend, buy her candy and stuffed bears. She likes the attention; you like it that she smiles instead of cries. Mother cheers you on from the sidelines. The moral support makes you feel more sure of yourself.
(—you’ve never brought any of your girlfriends home to mother. She avoids the topic whenever you ask. Although supportive of your relationships, she gets a fretful little look on her face every time you date someone new. She asks questions every day, about your dates, about what you do, on how you treat them. Her favorite questions is if you like them. You laugh and answer ‘yes’. She makes you promise to treat them right and never make them cry. To be a good man to them. You can’t help but find that last part funny, so very funny, specially when you take into consideration the sorry excuse for a pathetic human being she chose—)
Her eyes are a gentle shade of green and her hair the color of sunflowers bathed in honey. She smells like almonds and cheery blossoms.