Metaphor Salad. Strained and mixed.
Prompt: Yellow. Bathroom. Dancing.
Yellow petaled wall-flower, anything but a shrinking daffodil. Busy navel gazing about the ships rolling by. Built to last, sleek and shiny, the way they moved about the bulk gliding through water. Cocksure, all kinds of fancy flags fluttering, topped off with unnecessary embellishment.
Not sure the best way to respond she signals back, shrouding up against the back wall. Stiff drum of electronic music and the feeling it’d all be better if they could drink.
They watch the ships too, careful to spy where the hands end up. Dancing about with no real concern, laughing and sighing and pretending they weren’t being gazed upon. Ships.
School dances were the worst form of torture, where the wall-flower hangs about and looks like they don’t envy the ships as they sail. The friends were all amongst the others, lost at sea and drowning.
It was depressing to realise at such a young age that happiness is a drug, intoxicating until the mind was numb and all you wanted was some more. So strange it was, even a single taste drew her deeper. She didn’t have as many qualms or hang-ups though, she had already picked the lone vessel she set out to board.
Born with a scowl on his face and a brain between his ears. Darkly sarcastic and deliriously awake. Her yellow petals fluttered as she saw him, the sole reason she bothered coming. The sole reason either of them had come. They met out at sea, the waters rising overhead. A swallow broke the swell, her hand met his with a smile and she took him away to a private place – she was not much for sailing. Or the committee’s music. Or the eyes watching them as talked. Sitting on the steps outside the bathroom, miles inland where the quiet calmed.
It dawned on him, that ships often sunk and that they ran aground more often still. A ship is safest without feet firmly on the ground, but adrift.
Still, she kissed him.
“Fuck the ocean. I’d rather fly.”