She sits with her legs crossed and her elbows resting lightly on the table and leans in a little, sniffing the red flowers. Kind of tacky decoration, but they're—oh they don't have any scent, though, they aren't real. Plastic. Hmph. She got flowers when she was modeling and when she was acting, too, but now she only gets them from the odd fan who didn't listen when she had that press conference. I'm quitting the business, that was clear, right? Doesn't anyone listen anymore? Now when she gets flowers she throws them out or makes someone else do it for her, because she does not want them, people shouldn't—shouldn't—
He brought her roses, once. A dozen roses. That was it.
(she had to tell him six times but that was okay six was her lucky number)
She has the petals somewhere. With all the other things.
They don't smell very nice anymore, but they at least smell like something.
Misa wrinkles her nose.
"Miss?"
"What? Oh, sorry." Giggling at the edges of her voice, bubbly like champagne—the good kind, the kind they have at weddings. "Yes?"
"Did you want anything else?"
She starts to tell the waitress no, but than changes her mind. "I'd like another coffee," she says.
"Right away, miss. Thank you."
They teach waitresses to disappear quickly as soon as they aren't needed.
Misa worked as a waitress once! But she was really bad at it. She would always talk too much to the customers, and the manager got soooo angry—Misa brought in business, though, she did, all the guys wanted me to serve them their soda—Misa quit, though, to go and model. And other things, you know—
She's drumming her fingers against the linoleum, nails making a soft click—she hasn't gotten a manicure in ages, has she? But she's wearing one of her favorite dresses: it has lace and little cloisonne beads dangling from the fringe and indigo lining, behind a pale, pale blue, and she realizes that it's the first time she's worn anything that wasn't black in—
Misa glances out the window.
Twelve hours ago—no, twelve days at least—twelve months, that's it. That's how long it's been.
(a rose for each month, no one ever visits but Misa but she remembers)
(twelve is two times six)
Twelve is a good number; twelve's midnight.
Distracted, she stands to see further into the street—
and suddenly feels something hot and stinging.
"—oh, I'm sorry, miss! I'm so sorry! You stood up and I didn't notice, I was bringing your coffee, I—"
(Misa might have done something like this once)
The stain is spreading rapidly across the silk, brown and earthy and unpleasant.
"I can get you some napkins or—"
It isn't any good, that's never going to come out.
The moment Misa realizes she doesn't care is the moment she makes her decision.