Fields blossom and bloom around nature, dancing across the gentle blow of the wind, delicately scraping feet that walk over them barefoot.
Perhaps that's why she walks among the flowers, staring at vibrant green clovers that fade to bright, bright yellow flowers; they remind her of luck, of bright, bright joy.
It's what inevitably makes the woman pause; nature is beautiful and sometimes nearly precise.
That fact that a lot of the yellow flowers nearly are on top of each other as if tempting to lay claim to the most sun possible while the clovers just cluster close like wolf kits needing to be warm and together.
The woman pauses or rather remains paused as she takes it all in like her parents before her; they'd came here for peace of mind, to talk of dreams that lit the flowers up tall, and they'd came here to steal a kiss or two away from the bright city lights, away from prying eyes.
Nature had a way of keeping privacy, so she sits down in clovers, clustered around her like anxious kits ready to hear her story, so she indulges them.
"So bright flowers and lucky clovers," She giggles past her words as if they somehow amuse her as her companion nervously walks over to her like he doesn't belong though he looks nearly as bright as the flowers beside her, eyes as green as clovers are lucky.
She stares around them, gingerly taking the boy's hands, and the flowers preen to get closer, to catch her eye just as well as his fingers intertwine around her own.
The young woman takes a deep breath, "Maman and Papa told me about this place, how the flowers feel as vibrant with life as we are. They said it was magical, and it's where they first fell in love and to only bring someone here that I'd lay down my life for." Her preamble is delicate, and they lean forward towards it under the delicate brushing of wind that ruffles the woman's hair and stirs petals upon the air.
She leans back, almost delicately falling upon the clovers like that was where she belongs; the yellow flowers not far away beg for her man as that is obviously who he is to step into them and mold into their soft petals.
He doesn't listen, still sitting cross legged in the clovers like he uncomfortably doesn't belong.
The woman smiles, "I finally found that man after years." She breathes. "He's like the bright sun to my setting sun, and I think I love all of him more than I've ever known I could."
Her voice is delicate, nearly reverent, and the flowers rejoice around her.
"He's my hero." There's something in the downturn of her head then, something that conveys everything that she never knew she wanted, something that makes the wind want to pause and listen, makes the flowers still.
She begins with a few more false starts like telling a story to a child, but not yet aware of where to begin, "He's silly that's for sure."
The flowers want to laugh when they hear the amusement in her tone, and she smiles down at them as if she can just tell.
"I'm, as my Kwami tells me, full of luck." She looks forward, "And I've never really known that further than when I met my black cat."
Suddenly, it's like the flowers understand why he feels so left out, here outside of Paris, and why suddenly they feel he belongs with them than with the silent clovers.
"I don't know if magic remains in this field, but it feels like it does." She finally says as if she can't take the silence anymore.
The man beside her shifted, finally claiming her other side, and the bright flowers make him shine in the sunlight, pale blond hair, not pale enough to miss the embrace of light dances and stands out in the yellow flowers that are at least a few shades darker, and his green eyes peek out from stems within the den of yellow flowers.
"This is more comfortable." Are the first words out of his mouth, and the flowers titter excitedly.
She laughs and shakes her head at him, "Sometimes I think magic is mostly in the little things, like nature, so vast and yet so full of life." She shrugs with a vibrant smile and gingerly lays a finger over the petals of one of the flowers, savoring the soft texture beneath her fingers.
"Only for the very best." She teases the man, and the flowers feel pride at that; certainly, she and this man are the very best, so like and yet unlike the two that had came by years and years before.
She shifts to find a comfortable stance on the clovers, blinking when she picks a four leaf clover out of the ground by her ankle; she holds it delicately like a relic of her past and smoothly puts it in her man's hair, right by his ear, so that it will remain steady.
It's so like the big, burly man that put a yellow flower in his lady's hair, bright yellow against dark blue.
The flowers feel pride and joy at the memory and the realization that the clovers finally had their moment to shine as well.
"You need the luck more than I do." She shrugs, like she's spent years analyzing this, and the flowers look on in surprised joy, "My black cat makes me the luckiest woman in the world. I had to show him the field that my parents fell in love at."
The flowers are grateful for her memory, for that knowledge, so they gingerly lean towards the man with the help of the wind to tease his sides, to make him smile, and to nearly make him laugh.
The way that the woman stares at him, makes them realize that she loves him more than anything, and she shifts to reflect, "He's saved me so many times already and in so many ways. You know nature was there and helped me fall for him the first time?" She shrugs, and the flowers want to know if it was their influence or the beautiful power of nature that was there.
They doubt they'll ever know, but they have the strongest feeling that everything about her memory is obviously beautiful and not quite as cliche as they'd imagine.
"I fell for him twice before we knew." She laughs like the dew that suddenly brushes leaves come the morning and soft petals made wet and slightly hunkered down under the dew fall.
They love the sound of it.
"Once we knew it made sense. I guess you can say that ladybugs need their black cats, the balance, and the love of it all." She smiles before she gets up to grab a basket still beside her, and they realize that the story is over.
They cherish these humans as if the story never ended, because for them, the mystique and the allure of their romance hadn't quite ended yet.