Rosebuds, Chapter 2
Kirika couldn't stop looking at Mireille. She ignored all the landscapes, all the famous buildings, and all the natural beauty of France. To the young Japanese woman, nothing was as beautiful as the Corsican blonde to her left.
"Really, Kirika." Mireille was laughing, a lovely sound like the tinkling of bells. "What are people going to think about us? You haven't taken your eyes off me since we stepped out of the airport."
"Sorry." Kirika apologized and forced herself to stare straight ahead, but Mireille's laugh drew her gaze back in a second.
"I don't mind, I think it's funny."
There was a pause before Kirika initiated, "You hadn't been home for a long time when I stopped by. Where were you?"
"In Japan."
"Eh? Japan?"
The traffic light flashed from red to green and Mireille increased her pressure on the accelerator. "Hai, Nihon," she said carefully, blushing a little at her accented words. Kirika's eyes lit up with delight.
"You learned how to speak Japanese!" she exclaimed.
"Just a little," admitted Mireille. That did nothing to stem Kirika's excitement.
"What else can you say?"
"Hmm. Kon'nichiwa. Hajimemashite. Watashi wa Mireiyu desu."
Both girls laughed. "What did you go to Japan for?" asked Kirika. "It wasn't. . . another contract was it?"
"No. I don't even have my gun anymore. Actually, I went looking for you. . . because I thought you might have gone back to Japan." Mireille tapped a finger on the steering wheel and laughed. "But you were here, in France, waiting for me. The irony."
"You thought I was in Japan?" The excitement was gone from Kirika's eyes and had been replaced by pure curiosity. "Why?"
Mireille didn't answer directly, and Kirika didn't press her. A few streets later, she said quietly, "I didn't know where else you would go. I never imagined you would go to America."
The sky was navy now, masking Kirika's expression in the darkness. Mireille turned to look at her old partner but saw only her silhouette.
"I never even thought of going to Japan," Kirika said at last. "Especially since I have almost no memories of it, although I must have spent most of my life there. Returning to Japan wouldn't have been very much different from going to a new country, except that I would be reminded constantly of you and when I asked you to come with me on our pilgrimage to the past. And after we argued. . ."
Kirika's voice trailed off. Mireille put one arm around Kirika's shoulders. "It's past time I apologized for that," she said earnestly. "I've thought about that night so many times, even dreamed of it. I shouldn't have ignored you, I should have started paying more attention to you a long time ago, and-"
"Mireiyu." Kirika stopped the flow of apologies with just one word, heavily accented on the last syllable. "It doesn't matter anymore. We're together again, and that's all that matters." She smiled then, although Mireille couldn't see it. "Just like old times."
"Thank you, Kirika."
They drove the rest of the way in silence. Mireille was happier than she had been in years. Kirika was back-and best of all, she'd forgiven the absence and cruel words Mireille had dealt her. If she hadn't been driving, she would have liked to dance down the street.
The Corsican blonde pulled into a parking space and stepped out, giving her hair an elegant shake. Kirika slammed the door behind her and followed her up.
Mireille had entered the apartment building when she suddenly paused. Behind her, Kirika almost slammed into her back and was about to apologize when Mireille slowly turned, grinning as it dawned on her slowly.
"You were the one that opened my mailbox, ne?"
It was Kirika's turn to blush. "How did you know?"
Mireille laughed victoriously. "It was crooked when I came home!"
Kirika grinned guiltily. The smiles remained on their faces all the way up the stairs, where Mireille paused in front of her door and fumbled in her bag for her key.
"I have a key," Kirika reminded, deftly unlocking the door and giving it a push. Without a creak, the door swung open to reveal Mireille's Parisian apartment, the pool table, and the painting laid upon it. Kirika glanced at Mireille anxiously.
"Thank you for the painting," Mireille said, pulling Kirika into a hug. "This is the most wonderful gift I have ever received. Apart from you, that is."
Kirika would have been perfectly content to just lay her head on Mireille's shoulder, but much too quickly Mireille let go and stepped into the apartment, unzipping her long black boots. Kirika shut the door and kicked off her sandals.
"You must be hungry." Playing the hostess now, Mireille stepped into the kitchen and quickly began rummaging through her refrigerator. "I have pasta, and bread, and chicken, and-"
"It's okay, Mireiyu." Kirika cut her off for the second time, picking up the chicken that she had tossed to the ground. "Anything's fine. I-" her gaze traveled around the room. "I'm just so happy to be home again with you."
Still kneeling on the floor, surrounded by chicken and bread and packages of noodles, Mireille smiled and shut the refrigerator door. "All right then. Kirika-Kirika, what are you doing?"
The Japanese girl had her back to the Corsican blonde now, who quickly hurried over. "This is your homecoming, Kirika, you're supposed to be letting me do the preparing."
"It's your homecoming too, from Japan," Kirika pointed out, not even looking up. Deftly she sliced the chicken so quickly and neatly that even Mireille had to admire her style. "Besides, I've learned to cook properly."
"I learned to make tea," Mireille retorted, and added, "somewhat."
Kirika laughed and placed the pan in the oven.
= = = = = = =
"Kirika?"
"Yes?"
"What did you do all those years in America?"
Mireille lay flat on her back, her arms up above her shoulders and her hands under her head, listening to Kirika talk. It was a miracle just to hear her voice.
"I lived in Rhode Island and taught Japanese in a local high school. I learned Spanish, and was on vacation in Spain when I decided to stop by and see you here. I intended to paint but never. . . got around. . . to it. . . " The last words were punctuated with an exhausted yawn.
Mireille was silent, thinking this over.
"Mireiyu?"
"Hmm?"
"What did you. . . do when you were. . . in Japan?"
Mireille turned over to look at Kirika and smiled as if she were a little child. Her child. The girl's eyes were closed and only her chest moved up and down with each breath, the dark locks falling recklessly over her forehead.
"That's a story for another night. Go to sleep, Kirika," she whispered softly.
But Kirika was already asleep.
Kirika couldn't stop looking at Mireille. She ignored all the landscapes, all the famous buildings, and all the natural beauty of France. To the young Japanese woman, nothing was as beautiful as the Corsican blonde to her left.
"Really, Kirika." Mireille was laughing, a lovely sound like the tinkling of bells. "What are people going to think about us? You haven't taken your eyes off me since we stepped out of the airport."
"Sorry." Kirika apologized and forced herself to stare straight ahead, but Mireille's laugh drew her gaze back in a second.
"I don't mind, I think it's funny."
There was a pause before Kirika initiated, "You hadn't been home for a long time when I stopped by. Where were you?"
"In Japan."
"Eh? Japan?"
The traffic light flashed from red to green and Mireille increased her pressure on the accelerator. "Hai, Nihon," she said carefully, blushing a little at her accented words. Kirika's eyes lit up with delight.
"You learned how to speak Japanese!" she exclaimed.
"Just a little," admitted Mireille. That did nothing to stem Kirika's excitement.
"What else can you say?"
"Hmm. Kon'nichiwa. Hajimemashite. Watashi wa Mireiyu desu."
Both girls laughed. "What did you go to Japan for?" asked Kirika. "It wasn't. . . another contract was it?"
"No. I don't even have my gun anymore. Actually, I went looking for you. . . because I thought you might have gone back to Japan." Mireille tapped a finger on the steering wheel and laughed. "But you were here, in France, waiting for me. The irony."
"You thought I was in Japan?" The excitement was gone from Kirika's eyes and had been replaced by pure curiosity. "Why?"
Mireille didn't answer directly, and Kirika didn't press her. A few streets later, she said quietly, "I didn't know where else you would go. I never imagined you would go to America."
The sky was navy now, masking Kirika's expression in the darkness. Mireille turned to look at her old partner but saw only her silhouette.
"I never even thought of going to Japan," Kirika said at last. "Especially since I have almost no memories of it, although I must have spent most of my life there. Returning to Japan wouldn't have been very much different from going to a new country, except that I would be reminded constantly of you and when I asked you to come with me on our pilgrimage to the past. And after we argued. . ."
Kirika's voice trailed off. Mireille put one arm around Kirika's shoulders. "It's past time I apologized for that," she said earnestly. "I've thought about that night so many times, even dreamed of it. I shouldn't have ignored you, I should have started paying more attention to you a long time ago, and-"
"Mireiyu." Kirika stopped the flow of apologies with just one word, heavily accented on the last syllable. "It doesn't matter anymore. We're together again, and that's all that matters." She smiled then, although Mireille couldn't see it. "Just like old times."
"Thank you, Kirika."
They drove the rest of the way in silence. Mireille was happier than she had been in years. Kirika was back-and best of all, she'd forgiven the absence and cruel words Mireille had dealt her. If she hadn't been driving, she would have liked to dance down the street.
The Corsican blonde pulled into a parking space and stepped out, giving her hair an elegant shake. Kirika slammed the door behind her and followed her up.
Mireille had entered the apartment building when she suddenly paused. Behind her, Kirika almost slammed into her back and was about to apologize when Mireille slowly turned, grinning as it dawned on her slowly.
"You were the one that opened my mailbox, ne?"
It was Kirika's turn to blush. "How did you know?"
Mireille laughed victoriously. "It was crooked when I came home!"
Kirika grinned guiltily. The smiles remained on their faces all the way up the stairs, where Mireille paused in front of her door and fumbled in her bag for her key.
"I have a key," Kirika reminded, deftly unlocking the door and giving it a push. Without a creak, the door swung open to reveal Mireille's Parisian apartment, the pool table, and the painting laid upon it. Kirika glanced at Mireille anxiously.
"Thank you for the painting," Mireille said, pulling Kirika into a hug. "This is the most wonderful gift I have ever received. Apart from you, that is."
Kirika would have been perfectly content to just lay her head on Mireille's shoulder, but much too quickly Mireille let go and stepped into the apartment, unzipping her long black boots. Kirika shut the door and kicked off her sandals.
"You must be hungry." Playing the hostess now, Mireille stepped into the kitchen and quickly began rummaging through her refrigerator. "I have pasta, and bread, and chicken, and-"
"It's okay, Mireiyu." Kirika cut her off for the second time, picking up the chicken that she had tossed to the ground. "Anything's fine. I-" her gaze traveled around the room. "I'm just so happy to be home again with you."
Still kneeling on the floor, surrounded by chicken and bread and packages of noodles, Mireille smiled and shut the refrigerator door. "All right then. Kirika-Kirika, what are you doing?"
The Japanese girl had her back to the Corsican blonde now, who quickly hurried over. "This is your homecoming, Kirika, you're supposed to be letting me do the preparing."
"It's your homecoming too, from Japan," Kirika pointed out, not even looking up. Deftly she sliced the chicken so quickly and neatly that even Mireille had to admire her style. "Besides, I've learned to cook properly."
"I learned to make tea," Mireille retorted, and added, "somewhat."
Kirika laughed and placed the pan in the oven.
= = = = = = =
"Kirika?"
"Yes?"
"What did you do all those years in America?"
Mireille lay flat on her back, her arms up above her shoulders and her hands under her head, listening to Kirika talk. It was a miracle just to hear her voice.
"I lived in Rhode Island and taught Japanese in a local high school. I learned Spanish, and was on vacation in Spain when I decided to stop by and see you here. I intended to paint but never. . . got around. . . to it. . . " The last words were punctuated with an exhausted yawn.
Mireille was silent, thinking this over.
"Mireiyu?"
"Hmm?"
"What did you. . . do when you were. . . in Japan?"
Mireille turned over to look at Kirika and smiled as if she were a little child. Her child. The girl's eyes were closed and only her chest moved up and down with each breath, the dark locks falling recklessly over her forehead.
"That's a story for another night. Go to sleep, Kirika," she whispered softly.
But Kirika was already asleep.
