Plummeting into Carnations

We’re not obsessed with flying. We’re obsessed with falling.

Flying tells you that you’re safe. Falling tells you that you should value your life more. Flying shows you the light of sky and life, or look down and see the lights of towns with one traffic light, or cities with 10 skyscrapers. Falling plummets you to see how much cities actually scrape the sky, and you find out that it’s not actually that much.

She knew all of this. She knew that those who lived on Earth had varying degrees of acquaintance with either sensation. She knew that the ones who didn’t have the ability naturally either loved it or hated it, but for the most part they always seemed to confuse the terms. They should know that they are not afraid of flying, they’re afraid of falling. But language and thought processes are too convoluted to get mixed up in semantics. Semantics is for perfectionists that can’t learn for themselves. They also tended to hate flying - that lack of complete control. But she didn’t realize that there were other sensations to flying that didn’t involve gliding. They definitely involved air though, and she only knew this because of Tito.

Alba had excellent eyesight on her own. She saw the splotches on Tito’s skin first. Alba loved unpredictable patterns - she wasn't a perfectionist, so felt no need for stability. Stability was for those who forgot that life is free, with the only rules being that you eat and sleep and thank the dirt for providing.

They were in the middle of a tourist trap. Alba had come down to look for flowers, deciding over breakfast that she couldn't see enough color from the front of her house. She was at the mercado, but not the real one - she was at the one that everyone told tourists to go to so the locals didn’t have to deal with them. Spanish-speaking tourists - but only actual ones, with the right accents - could go to either. Alba didn’t mind the touristy one, since the fleecing was fun to watch. It reminded her of hunting by standing still because your prey will come to you. Not a technique she preferred, but one she could respect.

At the yerberia stand, la señora also sold flowers, a popular stop for the romantic couples. Alba smelled the fresh carnations. As she bent down, out of the corner of her eye, she saw skin with natural designs to match them. Fascinated, she looked up. It was Tito who stopped breathing.

Tito had never seen a face like Alba’s. That’s what they all say, but Tito never wanted to look at another face again. If she did, she might prove her theory wrong. Alba looked back, a small smile on her sharp lips, well-framed by her heart-shaped face. Today, her hair was black, straight, and a little wispy. Tito’s was her usual long, large, and tight curls. Tito smiled back. Alba’s instincts kicked in when the air from her lungs could not contain all the praises she wanted to say in one fell swoop - she would do anything to get this woman to fall in love with her. But she could not fathom how far the fall would go.

“Buenas tardes.”

“Buenas tardes,” Tito replied.

Oh good, a Spanish-speaking one at least, Alba thought. Alba found English to be clunky. Spanish is what she grew up in, and she loved the way vowels carried in it.

“¿Cómo te gusta el mercado?”

“Esta bien linda,” Tito replied, continuing in Spanish.

Alba did buy the flowers, forgetting her own need of color, finding that they looked better in Tito’s hands.

Alba knew flying. She knew wind patterns and which ones would take her furthest. She knew when it was safe to go out, and what it was to leave the nest. She didn’t know she could fly with Tito too while still on solid ground.

Alba had been flying for so long, she almost forgot what the first fall felt like. Mami had been there, ready to jump with her. She looked down and knew it was natural, knew it had to happen. This time, she looked up at Tito’s face, into her eyes that reminded her of her favorite nights, the darkest ones so you could see the most stars. Tito knew the fall many times, but herself forgot it could lead to such a height.

Alba decided her hand looked even better in Tito’s than the flowers had. She held her hand from the mercado to where Tito was staying. She continued when they walked up the stairs. Still when she pulled Tito close, to taste her - no, to savor her. Tito couldn’t believe Alba’s eyes, sinking into them as though they could wrap her in quiet, to still herself. They continued to hold hands as Alba shook under Tito, finding flight while lying down. Again as Alba held Tito, trying to surround her as much in this body as she could have in her other one.

When Tito woke up, she was still warm from Alba’s touch. But that was the only thing left of her, except for a note -

Querida Tito,

I’ll find you by the carnations on your skin, when the moon looks like me.

Bujito tuyo,

Alba

- and a single, brown, barn owl feather.