Your lips are tangerine

April 7, 2007

Cats don't usually have a penchant for oranges. This one did. It was an acquired taste. Acquired from where was answerable. Acquired how wasn't. A moonless night, a dark sky and the top of a building. He was a stray feline, this one. Ragged, bleeding—it was strange. Because he never was supposed to bleed. And the wound was due to foolishness alone.

His friends were out, which was normal. The two loud ones would be arguing over food, slowly drinking themselves to death. And the small, quiet girl would be sitting somewhere close, letting her mind wander towards other things. Train had left with curtains rustling. They'd all noticed, of course. They left him alone.

This night had that same quality to it. It was the same kind of night on which she died. The wind ran wildly, kicking up invisible leaves, moving the specks of debris littering the roof of the old building. His senses grew sharper than they had ever been, and he closed his eyes for a moment, sniffing the air.

In his mind's eye, he saw her. Her white, glowing skin and those fiendish eyes, kimono sleeves fluttering in the air. She would easily transcend the distance between them, hopping daintily from another roof. And she would pick up the bottle of millk.

A raven settled somewhere near him. Quietly, he cried her name. She was coming closer, bubbling and smiling mischievously. She drank and drank : he could almost feel the cool liquid splashing down her white throat. He couldn't explain—he didn't need to. Everything about Saya was bathed in moonlight. Her smile, her hair, and the glint of metal hidden away in her dress. But there was no moon.

And she bent down, moving closer to him. He could almost hear her say it, with that lilt in her high-pitched voice, and large eyes blinking speculatively.

"You're weird."

The wind died down, but his eyes did not open. Once, he thought. Just this once.

The ends of her mouth tilted upwards. It was a small mouth, he noted. Small and pink and delicate and perhaps it was soft—

She moved rapidly. Once, and then all he could feel was the impossible. Her lips on his, the wetness, the softness—her body was tiny and warm, and his heart was beating too quickly for his brain to register. He crushed her to himelf, almost desperately.

His eyes flew open.

Tangerines.

And then, there was nothing there. Not the wind, not the moon. Just the roof, the sky, and the raven. And him, of course. Alone again. (again?) Another dream, but this one was somewhat more believable than the others. Cautiously, Train licked his lips. Was it? Did she—? Dreams were tricks of the mind. They could not be felt. Not like this. And yet one detail had drilled itself into his brain.

"Saya," he croaked, looking off into nowhere, somewhat surprised. "Your lips are tangerine."