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Avijeet Das

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“The rapid growth of Message- combined with an outpouring of florists offering consultations in the language of flowers to the streams of brides Marlena and I turned away- caused a subtle but concrete shift in the Bay Area flower industry. Marlena reported that peony, marigold, and lavender lingered in their plastic buckets at the flower market while tulips, lilac, and passionflower sold out before the sun rose. For the first time anyone could remember, jonquil became available long after its natural bloom season had ended. By the end of July, bold brides carried ceramic bowls of strawberries or fragrant clusters of fennel, and no one questioned their aesthetics but rather marveled at the simplicity of their desire. If the trajectory continued, I realized, Message would alter the quantities of anger, grief, and mistrust growing in the earth on a massive scale. Farmers would uproot fields of foxglove to plant yarrow, the soft clusters of pink, yellow, and cream the cure to a broken heart. The prices of sage, ranunculus, and stock would steadily increase. Plum trees would be planted for the sole purpose of harvesting their delicate, clustered blossoms and sunflowers would fall permanently out of fashion, disappearing from flower stands, craft stores, and country kitchens. Thistle would be cleared compulsively from empty lots and overgrown gardens.”

“They were no longer standing the way he'd stood them, no longer engaged in the glorious basking that overwhelmed him on the headland. They were leaning toward the light now, craning toward it. He’d been dead wrong about the blitheness. The buttercups now seemed to know — to understand with that purely physical knowledge that all living things possess — that something was wrong. Their craning was like a cry: they were calling out with all the body language they possessed for a life or a place they had no minds with which to remember.”

“Fundamental movements are generally preoccupied with criticism, and with a desire for revenge and justice, a justice which is not tempered by mercy. ... Criticism, even when justified, can attract so many enemies that any spiritual possibilities one may have will be jeopardised because, to put it in its mildest form, having many enemies means having no peace.”

“The other corner of his mouth twitches like he's trying to keep the butterflies in too and he glances down at his plate, his dark eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks. I've never wanted to kiss anyone more. Oh. Oh. "Caleb?" He's far away again as I hear blood rushing in my ears. "Caleb? Are you okay?" The cold, blue spike of his worry is like dunking my head into a bucket of ice and I snap out of my own thoughts. He's looking at me again, the sparkle gone from his eyes as they fill with concern. "Yeah," I grunt, my voice sounding not like me at all. "Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry, I-" I can't tell him that I was thinking about leaping across the table and kissing him but I need to say something to explain why I've been--I'm assuming--staring at him, open-mouthed and blank, for the last few seconds.”