Autumn's falling leaves. Some might call them a 'crimson flurry' or 'a shower of bronze feathers', but I just call them 'the by-product of trees dropping dead for the winter'. Whatever the hell they're referred to as, smatterings of the dead stuff kept flying in my face, sticking in my long and messy blonde hair and landing on my lucky cowboy hat. It was Fall 11, Year 2. Guess what today was?! Dunhill's seasonal master plan to make me go nuts and confess all my crimes: the Garden Show Aw-Not-This-BS-Again Tour.
"I myself could have done better," Allen states, his arms akimbo and his nose pointed high above my humble marble garden. He is quite the paradox this one is. He possesses the handsomest looks in all the land while simultaneously maintaining the crappiest personality in the very same territory. It's too bad. He would've been perfect if somebody would've swapped his brain out for Yuri's.
Yeah, I know I'm being unfair to Allen. In truth, he's not all that bad. He even says some funny shit from time to time. It's just that I hate– I mean– dislike him whenever he compares me to dogs (my arch-nemesis from birth– those bloodthirsty animals have chased me up windmills) and when he rags on my hair– just like these cruddy leaves– or when he blatantly insults me on festival days like these (and everybody around me gives the 'ooh, burn!' look. Effing groupies).
Allen doesn't respect me– at all. And no, he CAN'T have some twisted crush on me which he is struggling to express through power play. That would mean he has half the maturity of Toni, which would make me lose all remaining faith in humanity…
Er. Not that I have anything against Toni or anything. Toni's awesome. He was my best pal back in Spring-Summer of last year– back when I was bored senseless and we'd bug-catch and skinny-dip our days away on the riverside. (I at least wore my underwear, alright?) That kid is still rad, but he isn't as antisocial as me now that he has some other kids to hang out with. Ah. I can't help but feel a little lonely because of it…
Moving on. Back to why that "crush" nonsense about Allen is outright dismissible. Allen is experienced with treating women well. I know this because I have some love EP myself and even right now, I can tell how he's gazing at Yuri's mom, Emma, like she's a 5-star apple Jelly Roll he'd like to replenish his stamina-meter with. If you know what I mean. (It's an innuendo ok.) And she's eating it up. (I must stop these tasteless jokes now.)
Yanking me from my thoughts comes in Michelle and even badass Iroha, whom– upon heard Allen's complaint and being easily influenced by it (and by it, I mean his bod)– both chime in with how lame my garden platform is this season.
"This garden needs more effort," Iroha says. She is always encouraging me to do my best and to never half-ass anything. Not that I try to… Yes. So Michelle's catty remarks don't bug me– because that's just how she rolls– but Iroha's stern and earnest words sting.
I go limp in disappointment. I know I should've crammed my platform with as much clutter as possible, but that's just not how I do things. I like a good-looking garden with SYMMETRY and AESTHETICS. Damn. These people wouldn't know a good garden even if it offered the goddess in a fishbowl and rainbows up the wazoo. But then again, those things would probably be worth major garden points. And probably be impossible to build without sacrificing several vital organs.
"This is… a nice garden," Rod says politely, scratching his left cheek and smiling shyly to hide his complete boredom. He is such a gentle and warm guy– which I really appreciate in this tundra of ice cold ingrates– but he also happens to be about as readable as a cardboard baby book. And he wears an orange puffer vest. I respect him for his constant sunniness though, but he's the last person I'd have a good time with. Not that I need friends, or a good time…
"You're such a nice guy, Rod," I tell him lowly, which he beams childishly at. I left out the part about why that's why no one ever marries him, but he doesn't need to know. Just like how I don't need to know what he REALLY thinks about my fail garden.
Rod opens his mouth– presumably to engage me in small talk– but before he can even say one syllable, Allen abruptly ceases flirting with the ladies– comes up from behind Rod, GRABS the poor lad by the scruff of his aforementioned puffer vest, and yanks him back like a cat on a leash. "Come on, little buddy," Allen says sharply, dragging him away on his heels; "Let's go give you a shave. And a haircut."
Rod, sad-eyed about his early departure (and on a related matter– blatantly incapable of growing facial hair for ANY shaving), waves goodbye and I wave back. Him and Allen… I heard that they're childhood friends, though, I'm not sure how. Must've been an awkward childhood.
Everyone else leaves the festival grumbling, so I throw myself back to my farm and into my work. My chickens are fussy little princesses and require me to repeatedly place them in front of their feed boxes before they even recognize the food there (I suspect Neil sells blind chickens in order to triple his chicken feed sales), but fortunately my livestock are slightly better at finding the food RIGHT IN FRONT of them (making them easier).
Out of breath and whipping my disheveled hair back over my shoulders, I run across the brown grass outside my farmhouse and head on in. I'm one of those farmers who likes tending crops late at night, so I clean up in the bath for now and go boil some bouillabaisse in the kitchen. It has a sexy French name, but it's really just fish stew. I've been living off this grub ever since I've started fish trapping for garbage. (VALUABLE garbage.) And ever since a certain "old man" named Soseki made me start sitting up and paying attention.
Soseki moved in during Winter of last year, and right in time, too. The Starry Night Festival was coming up in several days and I wasn't interested in taking anybody. But… You've gotta enjoy youth before it ends, right? On a whim, I asked Soseki to go and we spent the night together under the stars. Of course we didn't do anything, we barely knew each other– and it's still the same– but it was singularly the most romantic and beautiful event of my whole dreadful love life.
Pretty depressing, actually. So depressing, I almost cried. Soseki was very kind about it and shared the sentiment. He said the event made him the happiest he's ever been, but somehow– these past few seasons– it feels like he's been turning me away.
Sweating profusely, I make it to his house before lunchtime and hand him the sexy-fish-stew-made-with-love. But after thanking me, he puts it away, sits down at the table to eat, tries to ignore me, and leads all our ensuing conversation back to the topic of "how old" he is.
Bah, the only old thing about him is that tacky kimono.
And that facial hair.
Heading home, crestfallen, I stop in the middle of the cheaply-made dirt road (which I'd laid down last season), and for once, I think about Rod.
How did that shave and a haircut of his go? For the first time ever, I consider that Rod might be a fellow victim of Allen's bullying, but then I picture Allen going psycho with scissors and I can't help but chuckle at the ridiculousness.
Feeling better, I plod back to my farm to start fertilizing crops. And wouldn't you know, Neil is marching all over the place–inspecting my fields and animals like he's some kinda shadow mayor or maybe the person who's actually bothering to build up this town for free or something.
I make eye-contact with him and he threatens me immediately. "You'd better make good use of all this land or you'll regret it later," he says, making it obvious that he's thought about shanking me with some clippers and stealing my ancestors' land.
"Tch. Mind your own business," I say.
We stare each other down in true cowboy fashion, but he clicks his tongue and faces away. "You must have a lot of time on your hands to be bugging me, huh?" he mutters, dragging his feet and trudging away all passive-aggressively.
"Yeah go home," I command, not caring if he actually hears me or not, and frivolously sprinkling fertilizer all over the damn place. Despite Neil having about as crap a personality as Allen's, I actually can't bring myself to hate or blame the fellow rancher. Why is that? I'm not sure. It's probably because I have the same crap personality as him– if not worse.
Simply put, I share Neil's aversion to people. Shame it had to include him too, though we'd probably get along better if one of us suddenly decided to be a bubbly relationship doormat. It's not going to be me, obviously, and forbid the thought that he's actually being all tsundere and this is how he cozies up. I'll never accept it– such an idea– the thought of him acting hostile out of romantic frustration– sends horrific shivers down my neck. It's not in any rulebook I've ever seen, but it's going down in mine: Never get mixed up with a guy who can telepathically make your cows pregnant from five miles away.
After chores came sleep, and after that came a new cycle of the same chores and feats I've been performing for nearly two years now. Pulling cans of milk across the farm, I deposit them in my fridge and dash back outside, out of breath like always. I think of running some more fish stew to Soseki again– though I know he'd just push me away like the day before (and the day before that)– and my feet even betray my mind and actually CARRY me halfway there– but I stop in the middle of the road and finally sort things out for myself.
Soseki has been humoring me everyday like this for almost a year now, hasn't he? To him, I'm just a little girl with a crush which he hopes I outgrow.
A wave of grief washes over me, and the scenery around me blurs. Gasping like a fish keeps two hot beads from streaming down my face, and so does slapping my cheeks over and over. It seems I feel like crying again. Why is that, I wonder? I wonder… and my feet carry me to Rod's doorstep. Wiping the tears out of my eyes, I hesitate to go in.
Why am I here? I guess to make sure Allen didn't shave him bald. Right? That… of all things, must be it. Of course. Nine out of ten extroverts would agree I need to socialize right now, also. Anything to keep me from sobbing stupidly. I'm not even making sense anymore.
Turning the knob, I push the door in, carefully making my way inside, (wondering if I was any good with this socialization thing) when the first thing I see is the back of Rod's puffer vest and then… A BIG FACE-EATING DOG. Flinching in automatic fear, I jump back and run my elbow into the closing door, gasping and dropping to my knees in fierce pain.
Feet stomp my way and a hand grabs me, and when I look up, I find Rod observing my bent arm in great concern. "Are you OK?" he asks, lightly feeling my burgeoning bruise.
"I'm… I'm fine," I say, breaking out in nervous sweat as I carefully watch the roly-poly blob of a dog from across the room. "I just ran into the door. It's nothing. My bad for barging in."
Looking me in the eyes, very closely, Rod gives me one of the most serious expressions I've ever seen him wear. "Are you, by any chance, afraid of dogs?" he asks abruptly.
"I… uh?" My face grows red in shame. "What? Why are you asking me something like THAT?"
"Ah… Well," Rod begins, appearing kind of embarrassed himself; "Last year, back when you came by and adopted some cats, you got really startled when one of the dogs in the pen started barking at you. Then you ran home."
I freeze in thought, sifting through my memories and trying to recall this. It's a little hazy, but I can see myself getting nervous around his pet stall. Hell, I'm always nervous around his pet stall. Still, I'm kind of impressed that he remembers something insignificant like that. He must have a strong memory.
"You know, I was kind of like you when I was little," he says. "Dogs, and other animals that were larger than me, which were a lot," he adds with an undertone, "scared the utter daylights out of me."
"R… really?" I ask curiously (and maybe a bit hopefully). Him? A pet shop owner? Did he acquire some life-changing skill that helped him overcome his fear? All of a sudden, Rod was a lot more interesting.
"Yeah. It was really bad. Even Allen agreed that something had to be done." Rod smiled warmly. "So one night, he locked me up in the barn with a pack of dogs."
I instantly break out into an even colder sweat than before. If that's the solution– the answer to my problem– I don't want it. Conversely, Allen is a total bunghole. I also wonder if Rod is a masochist.
"Hey. Don't worry, there's an upside to this story." Rod smiles and squints his rather pretty blue eyes (if 'pretty' should even be used to describe a young man). "Though I cried, screamed, and threw myself at the barn door all night, the dogs were very understanding and simply whined as they watched. When I eventually fainted in shock, I woke up to find them curled up all around me, keeping me nice and warm. Not all dogs are bad, you see?"
Though it's a very moving story, I'm still not convinced that dogs are the gracious creatures he's panning them out to be. I shake my head accordingly. "So, what happened afterwards?" I ask.
"Oh, that." Rod glances at my neck and scratches his cheek awkwardly (and I realize his cheeks are so babyish– I kinda want to pinch them). "It seemed Allen forgot about me, so I was stuck in there all afternoon as well. But eventually, one of the dogs got my attention and showed me a secret tunnel out of the barn. Hm…" Facing his blobby dog on the other side of the room, he clicks his tongue softly and the animal saunters over.
I instinctively flatten myself against the nearest wall and tremble, but as the dog nears Rod, it sits down quietly and dumbly sticks its tongue out at him. "Now go say hello to her," Rod instructs it, patting its muzzle. "Be gentle."
"N-no!" I plead, cringing and tightly squeezing my eyes shut. I fight to suppress an inner whimper as a warm and wet tongue lightly scratches my hand, but to my surprise, it stops and no stick-like claws or bough-like arms assault me, and after a prolonged minute, I open my eyes to find the dog gazing up at me with its head tilted curiously.
Rod laughs brightly and I can't help but feel pathetic. "He wants to know why you're acting that way," Rod says. "He's never met a person who's so scared of him!"
I briskly wipe the back of my hand off on my overalls and tug my cowboy hat down over my eyes. "W-whatever," I stutter– and a bit more curtly than I'd meant to. "I'm not scared of dogs… or anything! So don't get any weird ideas about me." And at that, I fling open his front door and run out.
Dashing back to my farm, I self-consciously slap my face in stewing humiliation. Good going, me. Way to sound like an effing tsundere! (I swear I don't like tsunderes.) I might as well have just said, "I-it's not like I act tough because I'm really a softie inside who cowers at the sight of small animals… or anything!"
And Rod'll probably remember this forever, too. And if he tells Allen… Yes, Allen's daily "Hey, dog girl" insults will get even worse. But I won't be put down easily. I'll club Allen with a farm tool's blunt side if he even mentions locking me in a barn with some dogs. I'm not being unreasonable. It's self defense.
For the next several days, I solemnly wake up, rinse, repeat, and then start the next fiasco masterminded by Dunhill, which happens to be the grueling drudgery of The Fishing Festival. (I do have to hand it to that old man. He comes up with the most intensive show-stoppers.)
I've been keeping to myself since the festival, mostly because I've been busy fishing, but as I'm barreling into town on a Saturday afternoon, Rod catches my eye in the far distance, all standing outside his front door and squinting his eyes at the noonday sun in deep thought. I contemplate going about my business– to do more riverside fishing– but instead I inexplicably re-route myself to his house.
By the time I arrive in Rod's front yard, I realize that he has already vanished back inside. Clenching a fist, I go in as well– and as I step inside– carefully this time– I once again spot Rod and his blob dog. Somehow I keep composed and go in nearer.
Rod, sensing my presence from behind, excitedly turns around and greets me by my unimportant name. "Have you come to see me?" he then asks, an odd twinge of hope in his voice.
"Hn," I admit quietly, nodding my head. I guess I did come to see him.
But why? I guess to clear things up with him, since I want to convince him that I'm not REALLY scared of dogs– somehow. I have an image to uphold, after all.
Rod takes my noncommittal grunt as a yes. "Great, I'm happy to see you!" he trills, puffing out his chest and flitting up and down like an excited little budgie bird. (Which causes me to hold down a strange smile pulling at my lips.) "I'm just teaching my dog some tricks." He adds importantly: "He really needs the exercise!"
Rod is an honest young man who never overstates the facts: his dog really does need the exercise. It's hard to believe that a pet shop owner would let his own dog become so unfit and paunchy, but I forgo this unnecessary comment in favor of trusty silence.
"You keep chickens, don't you?" Rod asks me unexpectedly. "Could I take a look at them?"
Unable to resist his wide-eyed stare– or even ask him WHY he's so interested in my chickens– I nod automatically, which allows him to drag me back to my farm. Entering the chicken coop together, Rod begins cooing over my chickens (five normal hens and four silkies) before expressing interest in the difficulties of raising them.
I already feel stingy in the midst of his talkativeness, so I ask him if he wants to give chicken-farming a try. He agrees to it with thanks. "You got a pitchfork?" I mutter, pulling out mine. He nods and pulls out his own, so I walk over to some freshly soiled barn dirt and point my pitchfork at it. "Chicken shi–" I start out, but then quickly censor myself, since I'm apparently worried about preserving Rod's innocence now; "–Eh… doo droppings– are a bit stickier than a horse or cow's. Of course you know how runny bird droppings are, right?"
Rod goes completely silent, but I take this as a sign of attentiveness.
"Yeah, it's like that," I continue, "Even if your chicken serves it up fresh that night, scoop it before it hardens that next morning, or else you'll have to scrape it and your chickens will be pis–…. uh, peeved at you for leaving it there all night. Because this stuff is fowl."
Rod nods his head seriously at first, but after a bit of critical thinking, he chortles. I watch him sternly. "Uh, I just got that," he explains shyly, referring to the idiotic pun I made a full minute ago. Coughing anxiously and then holding his pitchfork like a pole-arm, he jabs the air aimlessly. "Any… special techniques for scraping old bird waste?"
"Go side to side," I explain, moving my pitchfork like a boat oar.
Rod starts moving his pitchfork like a frying pan. "Like this?" he asks.
"No, side to side. The prongs are longer than they're wide. Scrape from their sides for maximum contact."
"Uh…"
Rod moves his pitchfork like a kendo stick and I lose it. Lunging forward– I stab through his pitchfork prongs with mine and twist upwards to lock them together. I then move our pitchforks as one. "This way," I explain, showing him how it's done; he struggles to hang onto his as I'm apparently overpowering him, so I slow down and eventually unlock them.
"I… see," Rod answers, a playful flash alighting in his eyes. "Then… Like this!" He attempts to engage my pitchfork, just as I had done to his– but I parry it away with a tumultuous clash that rends sparks. He makes more attempts, but I deftly blow away each strike.
Captivated by the rush of movement, I gleefully give into chuckling– just like I was a kid again– and I gasp in rapid animation. "Your weapon is wasted in your unskilled hands!" I declare.
"Oh yeah?!" Rod strikes faster, but I mirror his pace and he tires out faster than he can move. Dropping his pitchfork aside, he falls back on his butt and our pitchfork battle ends with our high laughter and incredible panting. "You know," he says between labored breaths, "Until today, I've never actually seen you… smile or giggle. Or anything."
Finally aware of my foolishly gaping grin– after this whole time– I snap my mouth shut and tug my hat brim down over my eyes– a strong sense of guilt compounding inside of me– a guilt fueled by an unknown source of anger and despair. This crazy feeling…
Is it because I hate what he just said about me? It's like he jabbed a pointer at the fake heart worn on my chest– popping it and revealing the true one's color underneath.
Rod, picking up on my mood, despondently lowers his eyes to the floor. I can sense that he's mentally kicking himself for ruining our fun, but before I can suggest a new activity to smooth it over, he runs outside and returns holding a chicken.
And he's holding it completely wrong.
"W… why are you holding a chicken over your head?" I ask quietly. "What?"
"If I do this," he says, "don't you think I could fly?" Smiling, he hops up and down several times (holding onto the chicken's legs) and she starts screaming.
"No. She's a chicken, not what you're thinking of. And you're making her angry, which is BAD in either case." I take out a chicken treat because he's going to need it.
"Oh… Well. Here we go," he says, putting the chicken down; "Sorry about that."
I quickly hand Rod the chicken treat for use as a peace offering, but when he presents it to the chicken, she completely wigs out and chases him around the feed boxes, nipping at his heels and shrilling unforgivingly.
I truly want to help Rod, but by now– I am in hysterics.
"H-help!" he screams, finally leaping up onto the record-keeping counter where my chicken can't reach him. With shining eyes, she watches him from below, ready to attack the moment he comes down. "N-no," he cries, trembling in fear and clenching his eyes shut in a scene that reminds me of a few days ago. "Could you please… do something?" he begs graciously.
I slap myself out of my laughter and oblige. Picking up my crazy chicken, I whisper, "Good girl" to her and put her in the pen outside.
Stepping back inside the coop, I find Rod hunched over in exhaustion. "Phew, I thought it would be tough, but you're no kidding!" he says. "It was a lot of fun, too, though. I learned a lot!" He upturns his face to me and smiles trustingly. "Thanks."
Gaussian blur. Bubbles fly through the air for no damn reason. I say absolutely nothing, but my chest lurches and my throat decides to feel like I'm gulping down marbles. I can't take it. If he shows me that kind of face again, I…
"I'd better be getting home," he says, filling me with needless disappointment. "Let me take care of them again, okay? I'm looking forward to it already!"
I nod, and as soon as he leaves, I throw myself down in some fresh hay and lay there in a warm and fuzzy daze.
"What is this feeling?" I ask myself aloud, unaware of the time and wallowing like some vapid shojo heroine. "It's love, stupid."
This story will be marked complete until I figure out how to write more, as I already have too many stories ongoing and people ticked at me. OTL
Google "illust_id=26460091" for the cover art.