Page 6 of Inked in Bloom
“Hopefully, you’ll be well by your appointment,” she says and stands. “I’m going to miss having you around—Jessica will too.” I glance over at my unimpressed penmate, knowing how much of a lie that is. “No matter what, you’ll always be Sir Thumps-A-Lot to me. Maybe I’ll suggest it to your new owner.”
I huff at that.
New owner? No one owns this bunny.
Enough’s enough. The next time that door opens, I’m running. I glance at the stitches in my leg. Just need these gone and to stop this constant shivering.
The woman strides to the corner of the living room where an easel towers over me, a long canvas set atop it. I follow, curious to get a better view than from inside the pen. Jessica is busy stuffing her face with more bok choy leaves. I suppose it’s an improvement from her usual death glare.
Picking up a thick paintbrush, the woman dips it into a heap of sage green and drags it across the canvas in long, methodical strokes. She goes to work, sweeping paint in an array of hues from dusky pinks to mustard yellows until she’s created a bouquet atop the letter-filled clippings. Then she dips the brush in water, swiping a murky black that runs down the canvas—tears streaming from a green-eyed stare.
I bumble closer, swaying a bit with each step until I find my footing. Seasonal sickness continues taking its toll, throwing me off balance with its pounding headaches and chills. The exhaustion is the worst. I can’t even salvage the few dead plants entombed in her apartment.
Squinting beneath her purple spectacles, she leans toward the canvas, homed in on a section she highlights with pale green. It’s as if she’s hypnotized. She doesn’t notice me sitting by her feet until she takes a step back to see her painting better and almost trips over me.
“Want to make some art with me?” she asks, her brows bunching as she scans over the paints. She goes behind the canvas and grabs a smaller one, laying it on the floor, then kneels down with the palette and paintbrush beside her. Holding out her hand, she strokes my paw a few times. When I don’t retreat, she lifts it gently, painting the underside lavender, then presses it to the canvas. She repeats the process three more times with different colors. With a thinner paintbrush, she slices some dark green in four quick motions and sets it down. I stare at the bouquet of bunny prints and something fragile cracks within my rib cage.
“A masterpiece, don’t you think?”
A smile pulls across her pink lips, and I can’t help but think the real masterpiece isn’t covering this canvas but radiating from within the strange mortal whose company I’m enjoying too much.
Dread pricks at me, a thorn I can’t be rid of. I need to keep my distance from this mortal because regardless of how much I’ve enjoyed our morning together, the moment an opportunity to escape appears—I’m gone.
3
MONROE
The mid-morning streets are a flurry of motion despite the stagnant humidity. It’s so bright, I can barely make out the faces of the people I pass, their expressions slashed by sunshine, until I reach a spot of shade. I swerve around a couple walking their Pomeranian, bulky crate held in my balmy grip. Switching hands, I wipe my palm on my skirt and return their greeting with a swift nod of my head.
Even on my days off I dress up, a firm believer in enclothed cognition. It always boosts my mood. At least the vet seemed to appreciate the outfit. The attention was welcome, along with some harmless flirting, until a furry chestnut paw swatted him.
Phone buzzing, I step out of the middle of the sidewalk and set the crate down a moment to read the new messages, pinging my assistant to move up my Monday afternoon appointment so I can take Beth to visit Richard in the hospital. Quickly swiping to my grocery app, I order some food to send to Beth for tomorrow night, not wanting her to feel obligated to cook for me. I stuff my phone into my purse, pick up the crate, and cart it across the street.
My watch vibrates against my wrist. I wait until I’m on the sidewalk, look at the notification, and snort at the reminder to do some deep breathing to lower my heart rate.
They’re popping up with more frequency lately, and it feels like a personal attack. I don’t have time to slow down. A woman in motion stays in motion. It’s sheer physics. Tonight, once I’m done with everything, I can veg out, enjoy some tea, maybe paint and convince Jessica to snuggle. I’ll need them.
Sir Thumps-A-Lot shifts within his crate, and my ribs pinch. Despite his continuous low-grade fever, the vet believes he’s good to return to life as normal. As thrilled as I am for him, I’m going to miss the rascally fluff butt.
While there’s nothing indicating he had an owner, and the vet says no one has called looking for him, releasing him back into the woods near where I found him seems cruel. Maybe it’s a twist of fate that he landed in my care and he’s meant to be mine.
Jessica wouldn’t be on board for it, but maybe she’d come around.
Frowning, because I know she won’t, I cross the street in the direction of the basketball court where I found him. Sweat beads across my chest and arms, tinting my pink blouse with splotches of scarlet. God, I wasn’t meant for this heat. Every summer is more oppressive than the last. I’ve lived here my whole life, was born in the Virginia suburbs and moved to Arlington while I worked on my doctorate. Not needing a car is one of my favorite things about the area, but that was before I was toting around a crate at the end of July.
I plop down on the bench and set the crate next to me. Sir Thumps-A-Lot wriggles his nose against the grate.
“You hungry, little guy?” His nostrils flare and one floppy ear perks up, knocking against the ceiling. I rifle through my purse and pull out a Ziploc bag of hay I keep with me. Food is the way to my heart, I figure the same goes for bunnies.
Tugging the latch, I let him come into my lap and hold up a palmful of hay to his nose. After a few wriggles, he begins grazing, his left ear twitching all the while. I scratch the base of it, along with his chin, and once he’s devoured the pile in my hand, he nuzzles my palm.
His body still shakes, as if we aren’t in the sweltering summer heat, and I’m so glad Dr. Bradford told me it’s just nerves. I kiss the soft, quivering tuft of fur between his ears, hoping it’ll calm him. “Maybe I should keep you.”
Contrary to popular belief, bunnies aren’t necessarily snuggly—Jessica is a testament to that—but this chestnut fluff is always ready for a cuddle. He vibrates and leans against me, thumping his paw gently until his eyes drift shut. He’s been sleeping more and more with each passing week, but the vet said it was probably his little body healing. Nothing to worry about.
I still do, though.
I continue petting him as cars and pedestrians go past. The world is a blur of movement, but I inhale, grounding myself in the present where no one needs me but the shivering puff in my lap. This is just my disappointment creating reasons he’s not ready for me to let him go. Exhaling, I focus on his soft fur beneath my fingerpads.
