Sowing Seeds

It was a humid day in June, the air weighing heavy and cloying up the lungs of those who dared set foot outside. Somehow, the city still managed to bustle in spite of the dreadful heat.

The dew clung to the frail and withered plants dotting the perimeter, persistent on taking the flora down with them. Beyond their struggle to keep from snapping was an emerald lawn which hardly fared better. Dividing that was a concrete walkway that choked out any plant life around it, lampposts the only things left standing. Farther past the barren, miserable display — and arguably thriving in comparison — was a theater that cast the little world in shadow.

The Bristol Theatre stretched unnecessarily high for most of its draw taking place on a glorified box a grave's depth off the ground. The architecture was old with time-worn carvings crawling across the walls and thick, cracked columns littering the outside of the building. Said columns stretched tall and were tipped with stone-carved clouds that acted as if they were trying to accommodate for not reaching the real thing. Even the windows were scrawled with ancient markings whose meanings were either lost to time or never existed. Nobody knew enough to tell. The entire thing was nothing short of a cathedral. To top it off, the centerpiece of the theater exterior, the doors, held imagery of stage history long past. Despite the stories holding up strong, they didn't look strong enough to keep the doors on their hinges as they loudly creaked open with a push from the inside.

A young man stepped out from the doors, looking none the brighter in the face of the muggy weather. He appeared twenty-something, maybe thirty, slim, well put together, and all-around durable. He sported black, wavy hair that fell in his face with one of those constant windswept looks and a neat shave like the dozen or so you could find on the street that day. His eyes were a too-bright green, the kind that stuck with you long after you'd forgotten the rest of him. They held nothing but mirth when he looked over his shoulder behind him. He was a mug you'd picture working the lumber mill or at the docks. Rather, he worked at the Bristol.

Just as the weighty, ornate doors were about to settle into place again, they were shoved open by the heavy paws of a monster within. In his case, literal paws. His yelling was enough to hold the doors open themselves.

"Get it right this time, Conway! I don't pay ya to daydream!" the feline beast bellowed. "Those rafters snap again, and I'll string you up by the grand curtain!"

"Yes, sir, Mister Bristol."

Vincent knew the man's name wasn't actually Mr. Bristol, but no other monster wanted to get close enough to him to learn his real name. He didn't act too opposed to keeping it that way either, what with his continued yelling and all.

He also knew that the threat was an empty one. He wouldn't be fired anytime soon, but he wasn't willing to push his luck, so he threw a firm nod Mr. Bristol’s way.

Mr. Bristol's mood simmered at Vincent's compliance, a low growl resonating from within him. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but he let the door do the talking as he slammed it shut.

Vincent drew in a long breath and set to work. He propped the absurdly tall ladder he carried next to the awning over the doors, taking care to not scuff the engravings. There wasn’t much space for the ladder to lean against. Paired with the wet morning grass, it looked like a disaster waiting to happen, and yet Vincent still climbed up. Whether it was blissful ignorance or willing avoidance was anyone's guess.

Because of the theater's age, the building wasn't quite up to modern regulations. In turn, the rafters weren't meant to be crawled all over by anything besides a stray critter, much less a glorified stagehand. The only way to get to them was through several window panes precariously placed around the roof of the building. Whoever the architect was must have figured the theater was a one-and-done deal — design something that stood upright and everything else would be another man's problem. Mr. Bristol intended to install new rafters once the old gave out and figured the dangerous work would deter Vincent. Much to his dismay, Vincent saved him money. Now he was stuck with a young man that wouldn't leave his theater.

Having reached the roof, Vincent dragged himself over the ledge and felt around for a tarp. Under the tarp was a toolbox that had now seen as much use as a gambler's favorite deck thanks to Vincent's persistence. Its eternal resting place might as well have been that ledge.

Vincent knelt over and blindly grabbed a screwdriver, undoing the clasps on the nearest window. When he let it fall open, he was quickly hit with a heat too hot for anything with blood in its veins. If the murky weather was bad, Hell had nothing on the Bristol.

Before he was able to proceed with suffocating himself, Vincent's attention was drawn to a shuffle of movement out of the corner of his eye. He crawled on all fours to the roof’s edge and curiously peered over it, spotting a stranger knelt in the dirt at the edge of the lawn. She looked as if she was digging up those old excuses for plants, and he looked as if he were a child staring at a fish in a pond.

It was easy for Vincent to make out her features from his position on the roof. She brandished wavy, jet-black hair that fell to her shoulders, sun-tanned skin, and a sharp jaw, all accentuated by a hooked nose. Draped on her body were dirty overalls matched with a set of mud-stained rubber boots and thick rubber gloves over her hands. Others may describe a dame as like a flower: delicate. This one, however, was something sturdy and reliable, more akin to a...

Well, Vincent was never any good at identifying plants.

The way she carried herself wasn't far off either. She walked with each foot firmly planted in front of the other like she was never unsure of what would happen next. She just knew. Whatever she was, she held his interest.

After all of Vincent’s staring, it took him longer to realize what this stranger was actually here for.

“Hey, Miss!” he called out to her from above.

After a moment of her spinning around trying to find the source of his voice, her eyes finally landed on him. Not expecting to see a stranger on the roof, the confusion on her face was plain as day.

“You that new flower person Mister Bristol hired?” Vincent didn't miss a beat.

She laughed and shouted back. “If ya’d like to put it that simply, yes!”

“Say, that means I’ll be seein’ you 'round 'ere more often, huh?”

“I suppose ya will.”

“Fancy that! Nice to meet’cha, Miss Flowers!” he called over. The stranger couldn’t help the smile that grew on her face from his delighted chirping. She decided to play his game.

“Pleasure to meet’cha too, Mister Man-on-the-Roof!”

Both of them must’ve been satisfied with their childish nicknames as neither pushed to learn the other’s actual name. With simple pleasantries out of the way, they went back to their respective jobs. There was only so much that could be done in the day, after all. Whatever questions they had were saved for another time.

When Vincent finally climbed down from the roof, the sunlight had long since turned to streetlight. He was a little disappointed to find that Miss Flowers was nowhere to be seen. Even the boot prints she once left in the dirt had been tilled over.

Vincent was back at the theater the next day to continue work. He had come bright and early in the hopes he could catch Miss Flowers again before Mr. Bristol noticed he wasn't actually working. It wasn't often that there was someone he could shoot the breeze with at work. Many of the people that came through the theater were either frantic performers that only had time for a few words or the stuffy audience that Vincent was less fond of talking to. He initially didn't see the stranger anywhere, so with only a little disappointment on his face, he grabbed his ladder and headed to the theater's front.

"Hey! Mister Roof-Man! You ain't even gonna say hello?"

Vincent's head snapped toward her in surprise. Miss Flowers was once again knelt in the dirt, but she was simply on the side of the lawn this time. He mentally berated himself for being so unaware. Vincent knew he was a little clueless sometimes, but he didn't want Miss Flowers to catch on so soon. He was too familiar with not making good first impressions.

"Sorry! I, uh, was just so focused is all! Didn't see ya, y'know?" he finally mustered out. He must've made a sight as he came to realize he was cradling his ladder like it was his lifeline. Swell. He quickly adjusted it to sit over his shoulder and headed to the side of the lawn.

"That's quite alright. I just wanted to catch ya before ya went up so we could avoid shoutin' at each other again. Keep Mister Bristol off both our tails, right?" She punctuated that last sentence with the quirk of her brow, making it seem she was already familiar with Mr. Bristol's penchant for yelling, especially at Vincent.

He huffed a laugh. He was beginning to like her already.

A comfortable silence passed between them as Miss Flowers dug out her tools. Vincent propped his ladder on the ground and poked his head and arms between two steps so he could lean on it and watch her work. He was surprised at how she looked entirely unfazed by the stifling June heat, especially with all the heavy clothing she was wearing. He knew his own reasons for being unbothered, but he couldn’t help but wonder what hers were. Maybe she was just resilient?

He put the thought aside for the time being, instead taking note of all the colorful plants loosely packed in the wood cartons that littered the lawn’s edge. It made him think of the stuff you kept fruit in at the store. Vincent tried to wrack his brain for a name to any of the budding plants, but he came up short. They just all looked like pretty little… things to him. The gears turning in his head must've been audible to Miss Flowers.

"Not familiar with botany, are ya?"

Vincent stumbled over himself at her picking up on his thoughts.

"Um, I'm sorry," he muttered.

"Don't be. It's rare for me to meet someone that knows what I work with, so yer not alone." She threw him a gentle grin to try to ease his worries. It worked surprisingly well.

"I can at least tell they're awful pretty," he added.

"Well, I'd hope so! Been growin' ‘em myself these last few weeks," she boasted without a hint of pride. Vincent's face lit up in sincere earnest.

"You grow all these yourself? Water an' care for 'em an' everything?” The ladder threatened to slip out from under him as he leaned forward. “I mean, not that I can't believe it, I just thought maybe ya got 'em from someone and just planted 'em? I don't mean that in any rude way of course! It's just—" he caught himself rambling and paused. He sighed in defeated embarrassment. "I just find it real nifty is all. Comin' from someone with no smarts on it, anyhow," he finished meekly. Vincent couldn't keep up looking at her, opting to stare off at the sidewalk to his right and sorely wishing he could hide behind his ladder.

It was Miss Flowers' turn to fumble around now. She didn't seem used to someone taking such interest in her work. It was made apparent by the look of bashfulness that crept across her face.

"Thank you."

When Vincent looked back at her, he noticed how she was turning the trowel in her hand over and over.

"It really means a lot, you findin' what I do so novel. I'll have to tell you about it sometime."

It looked as if she visibly caught herself after speaking.

"If- If you'd like to hear, that is."

Then Miss Flowers smiled up at him, and it showed off a set of strangely sharp teeth that poked out from her lips. It didn't deter Vincent one bit as he idly watched how the corners of that smile met her eyes and made her nose crinkle. That was a smile he could get used to.

Speaking of eyes, now that she was looking directly at him, Vincent found himself staring a little too long at just how blue her eyes were. There was a distant sense of familiarity nagging at the back of his mind. He could tell she wasn't human. He wondered if she could tell the same.

He came back to reality with a jolt when he saw how the bashful look she once had was now replaced by one of question. It was like she knew exactly what he was hung up on and was just waiting for him to regain his bearings. He was comforted by the fact that it seemed like she was used to this reaction.

"Of course. Yer much more pleasant company than the dust kitties in the rafters, not to mention the other critters.” Vincent emphasized his distaste with a shudder.

A look of realization suddenly crossed his face, making him turn to scrutinize a watch on his wrist.

“Listen, I’d love to hear ya talk more Miss, honest, but—” Vincent grunted as he pulled his head out from the ladder. ”—I think we both know I oughta get back up to the roof now!” He glanced around, making sure Mr. Bristol wasn’t there to notice his presence. Looking over his shoulder with a sigh of relief, he hefted the ladder onto his other shoulder before passing a glance to the stranger. “Tell me all about it tomorrow! I don’t hafta be up here ‘til later, so I’ll have the morning!”

“I’ll hold ya to it,” Miss Flowers beamed.

There was that smile again. He really was beginning to take a liking to it. Before he could make it halfway across the lawn, he was stopped in place by a shout. It wasn’t Mr. Bristol’s thankfully.

“Hold on!” Miss Flowers ran over and closed the distance between them, plopping her hands on her hips. “Y’know, yer name is a pretty tough one, Mister Man-on-the-Roof. Maybe we can make both our lives easier.”

"Well, we can't all be born with flashy names. Sometimes it just ain't in the cards,” Vincent sighed dramatically, casting his eyes downward.

She rolled her eyes and continued, extending her hand out for a shake. “You can call me Caroline.”

It was Vincent’s turn to smile now. He gently grasped her hand in his own. “Call me Vincent. Pleased to meet’cha, Miss Caroline Flowers," he declared with the shake of their hands.

“Oh, go to Hell.” She immediately drew her hand back and shoved him in the shoulder.

He wondered if Caroline knew the irony of her words. Maybe he would find out soon enough.