Prompt by The Misty Jewel: Write what the song "Summer" by Imagine Dragons reminds you of.
Title is from the lyrics of that song.
Warning for death ment.
Matthew
The photographs stop arriving in the mail the last week of summer.
He's gotten one a week all summer, so by now he has a whole folder of them sitting on his desk, untouched. They're lovely photographs, even Matthew can tell: printed on good glossy paper, with a wonderful composition that draws the eye. They look like something somebody would pay good money for, but they arrive to Matthew with no strings attached- not even a return address.
Sometimes he wonders if the photos are supposed to be for him, but that feeling only lasts for as long as it takes to flip it over and read the name scribbled on the back; it's always the same name. He doesn't know an Alfred F. Jones.
But he doesn't try and find out where they come from until they stop coming.
I.
The man at the flower shop, who has a charming smile and really nice hair, tells Matthew that his name is Francis, it is a pleasure to meet him, and Alfred is dead.
Died two weeks ago, in fact. In a car accident. Francis is glad he doesn't know the driver that did it. Would never be able to look him in the eye. Francis had been close with Alfred, you see. A good friend, that boy. Francis'd had no idea he was interested in photography, though.
"And you don't know what these photos might have been for?"
No, Francis doesn't know. He is very surprised by the content of the photographs. He would never have pegged Alfred for the artsy type. Just goes to show how little we can glean from mere observation of our companions in life, he says. Everybody is a hidden masterpiece, he says.
"That's very wise," Matthew says, and places the photograph of the flower shop on the counter. It shows two small windows, the store bisected by a little green door with an OPEN sign. The flower shop, on the inside, seems much larger than pictured. "I suppose they aren't really mine to give, but I think you should have this."
Matthew leaves, a photograph lighter, a bouquet of red camellias and a phone number heavier. When he looks back at the flower shop, Francis waves at him from the window and brings his hand to his ear in a "call me" gesture.
Matthew waves back. Red petals float to the ground.
II.
Francis has directed him to a neighborhood just a few blocks away from the flower shop, so Matthew walks. He finds that when you're holding flowers, people tend to smile at you more.
Kiku Honda lives in a little house at the end of the street with sky blue paint. He is a journalist. Matthew has seen his name in the newspaper. Kiku Honda writes about things that happen very far away, such as epidemics in south Asia, or the job market in Mexico, or racism in central Europe. Matthew doesn't read those parts of the paper. He still greets Kiku with great respect when the man opens the door; it must be thrilling to see one's name in print.
Yes, Kiku had known Alfred Jones. No, he was not aware that Alfred was taking photographs. Francis had directed him here? At this point, Kiku looks aside and mutters something about privacy that Matthew can't quite make out.
Kiku certainly seems to be very reserved, for a news journalist.
"And you don't recognize any of these photographs?"
Kiku picks one carefully out of the spread Matthew fans before him: a photo of a smiling teen with long, black hair. That one is Yao Wang, who moved to China with his family a year ago. But is Mr. Williams sure that these photos are all from the beginning of this summer?
"That's when I received them, yes."
Kiku mentions carefully that he, himself, no longer owns any photographs of Yao. He was very shy about having his photograph taken, he says. He really wonders how Alfred managed it. Then again, Alfred was always very good at persuading people to do things they didn't think they wanted to.
Kiku says that in such a way that Matthew impulsively presses both the flowers and the photo into his hands.
III.
Tino and Berwald are the most adorable couple Matthew has ever met. They also run the most wonderful animal shelter in the world. He has been at the shelter for five minutes and is already considering raiding his bank account and adopting six dogs.
He knows it's a bad idea.
He really does.
Alfred adopted a cat from here, says Tino. The cat was white and fluffy. He (Alfred, not the cat) would often come to help with the animals. Tino had known from the minute he saw him that the boy was an animal lover. Tino often had a sense about these things.
However, neither Tino nor Berwald has any idea about the photographs, although both of them agree that the photographs are very nice. Matthew shows them a shot of a white cat sitting on a windowsill, the summer sun streaming in from outside.
Yes, that's Alfred's cat, says Tino at once. Looking over his shoulder, Matthew notices the large board behind the desk, on which photographs of pets and thank-you cards are pinned. He wonders if this cat is on that board somewhere.
"Who adopted his cat?" he asks, hoping it's not too rude of a question.
Alfred's sister has the cat. If Matthew doesn't know what to do with the photographs, Tino suggests, he is sure that the Jones family would be grateful to have them.
"It wouldn't be insensitive, though?" Matthew says.
Tino insists that the Jones family is not like that at all. They are all very kind. A photograph, says Tino, is a very personal thing. It is a small piece of how an individual views the world. Perhaps the Jones family will understand the meaning of the photos better than Tino does.
So sorry, but Matthew will have to excuse Tino. Working at a shelter is very time-consuming. It makes Tino happy, though, that so many pets are adopted during the summer. Summertime is the best time to find new life, in his opinion.
Matthew pins the photo of Alfred's cat to the corner of the board while Tino isn't looking.
IV.
Matthew knows it's summer, but Amelia Jones's short shorts are so short that they go beyond simply keeping cool. He yanks his gaze up to her face just in time to see her sunny grin fade as soon as he mentions Alfred's name.
Maybe Matthew should come inside. Amelia's parents aren't home, but, she says, they trust her to bring boys in. She's nineteen, after all, and quite mature, thanks. Matthew blushes all the way up two flights of stairs to her room.
The house is so air-conditioned it's cold, but Amelia shows no sign of getting chilly in her t-shirt and shorts. Matthew, on the other hand, is shivering in his sweatshirt by the time they reach the end of the hall.
Amelia plops down on the bed. She wants Matthew to show her the pictures. Wow, she'd had no idea Alfred was into that shit. She thinks these are pretty good. She tells Matthew that this photo is of the ancient tree in their backyard that got cut down two months ago. And that one is from when they went apple picking and Amelia's mom was baking pies for weeks afterwards and how she, Amelia, had to bike over to Raivis's house and borrow cinnamon and brown sugar and nutmeg from his mother every other day and how embarrassing is that?
And she goes to the college near here, and does Matthew go to college and wow, Matthew majors in political science, how sweet is that, and Matthew mustn't think she's lazy because she stays at her parents' house, this is just for the summer, and she thinks maybe this year she'll try and find an apartment closer to college, because it must be sick as hell to be independent, and also she thinks her parents are getting kinda stressed with her being here, and with them already being upset because of Alfred…
Oh no, she's practically spilling her whole life story and she doesn't even know Matthew, how rude. She says she's sorry. She says this always happens.
"It's fine," says Matthew. "It's me who's barged in on all this. I'm sure it's a very personal matter."
She doesn't want Matthew to worry. He's been very kind, showing her all these photographs. She is really sorry that she started babbling. It's just that she hasn't really had anyone to talk to lately. Has anyone ever told Matthew he's a very good listener?
She's sorry that she doesn't know what the photographs were all about. There was a lot about Alfred that she didn't know, she says; they gave each other their own space, you know, she says. But now, she wishes she had asked a bit more about his interests.
"Do you want to keep them?" Matthew asks her.
No, she doesn't want any of them. If there's anyone who should get them, she says, it's Arthur.
"Who's Arthur?"
Arthur was Alfred's boyfriend. He lives in London. She doesn't have his phone number, though, just a mailing address. Does Matthew want it?
Arthur
Matthew has nine photos left. Some of them are of plants, of buildings, of items. Some of them are of people. He wonders if one of the people is Arthur, or if one of them is Alfred himself. Amelia didn't say.
Matthew puts all the photographs into a large manila envelope and marks them with the address Amelia gave him. He doesn't write a return address. He puts an explanatory note into the envelope and seals it shut, adding several stamps. It's going to have to fly across the ocean.
A school bus passes him on the way to the post box. He stands in front of it, staring at the envelope in his hands. What is Arthur going to think when he opens it? When he sees the name on the backs of the photos? When he takes them out, will he see the name first, or the image?
What if Arthur doesn't want the photos? Maybe it will hurt, seeing them. Alfred is dead. Matthew will never know why those photographs came to his mailbox. He'll never know who they're really for. That hurts, too.
His phone buzzes.
Hello, Matthew! It's Francis. Kiku and I are meeting at the Seasonal Café downtown.
I'm not sure if you have been before. I would very much like you to join us.
Matthew feels a little warmer. He looks back at the envelope, in which the photographs of one summer are tightly sealed, ready to travel somewhere else in their odd anonymous journey. He's got no way of knowing if this is what Alfred F. Jones would have wanted, but that's okay. Maybe the photos never did what they were supposed to do, but they did change Matthew's life in their own way. That's got to count for something, he figures.
Time moves on. Matthew pushes the flap open and drops the envelope into the post box, and that's that.
this piece was a bit experimental. no beta. written for the misty jewel. (we're doing oneshot prompts for each other this summer!)
thank you for reading!