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Between Glaser's and the neighboring shop - not the Radio Shack, because even with the repaired sign (no, she didn't see who broke it, it was like that when she arrived) she doesn't like to get too close to it, but the other one - there is a tree. It's one of many planted down the block, and one of two in front of the bake shop. There's a halfhearted little wall around it, two bricks high in the sections where the top brick hasn't been pried loose or otherwise removed, and it's a terrible place to sit (somewhere between uncomfortable and precarious), but Sunshine is sitting there, anyway.
It's the other tree that has her attention. That's where she'd crouched, that other night she doesn't think about, and that's where she'd dripped magic-steeped water into the small, bare patch of dusty earth, which she has also not been thinking about, but with greater vehemence. But putting it from her mind doesn't mean she didn't do something - though hell if she knows what, exactly.
The tree seems different.
She sips her iced tea and examines the shadows on the leaves. They blink and shimmer as the branches are stirred by natural breezes or the less natural gusts that follow larger vehicles, and they don't seem to say anything. Rather, the sense that she gets from them is… anticipatory. Like a little kid waiting to present you with a crayon drawing or some macaroni art, hushed but barely repressed, seconds away from impatiently bobbing up onto their toes and finally tugging on your sleeve and saying look.
What is it waiting for? Who is it waiting for?
A proper breeze rolls down First Avenue, stirring the leaves. … Ssssssssssssunsshhhhhh…
She sits up sharply, one foot scooting along the sidewalk, feeling as if someone has thrown a bucket of cold water over her despite the summer weather. She tosses a stupid, irrational glance over her shoulder at the trunk of the closest tree, as if trees talking to her is such a daily goddamn occurrence that she really needs to double check which one addressed her just now. The funny-not-haha part is that shadows do tell her things, tree shadows included, but not on a carthaginian first name basis. They don't… know her.
Well, this one evidently does. She can feel its awareness of her, like the blind reaching all plants do toward the sun. Maybe it's just the wind that makes it seem as if the tree is leaning toward her, a little, but it's not just the wind going, … Sssssssssssssssunshhhhhhhhhhh…
Gods and frigging angels. Are other people hearing this? Can other people hear this? She heaves herself to her feet and stumbles the little distance between the two trees. Her palm finds the rough bark first, and then, acutely aware that the bake shop has big windows and that it would be best to not look like a complete lunatic in front of her employers, she leans her shoulder against the trunk and pulls out her phone, pretending to fiddle with it.
To the tree… how in the hell do you talk to a tree? Does she even want to talk to it? Mostly she just wants it to stop trying for her name where someone with sharp ears might notice.
Maybe touching the bark, combined with her palpable confusion and consternation, is enough. Yesssssssssssss, whisper the leaves. The trunk sways almost imperceptibly, and the branches creak. Ssssssssunshhhhhhh...
She makes a quiet sound of complaint in the back of her throat - not so far removed from the creaking of the branches, really - and scowls through the screen of her phone. Quiet, she thinks. Enough.
The whisper of the leaves devolves into a wordless hiss, though she thinks she detects a hint of dejection - don't you like my macaroni art? - which she refuses to feel guilty about. She didn't ask the tree to start talking to her, and if she's hurt its feelings… well, she didn't think trees had feelings to hurt. They're not supposed to have feelings to hurt.
She pockets her phone and pushes herself away from the trunk. Her little break is over, or will be over soon enough to excuse her going back inside now. There's a wordless rustle from the leaves, and Sunshine gives the tree a quelling look. Then she deliberately turns her back on the thing and walks back into the shop.
There's a faint chime as the door swings shut. The tree gives its branches a ruminative shake. Quietly, only to itself, it finally manages, … Sssssssssunssshhhhhine.
It's the other tree that has her attention. That's where she'd crouched, that other night she doesn't think about, and that's where she'd dripped magic-steeped water into the small, bare patch of dusty earth, which she has also not been thinking about, but with greater vehemence. But putting it from her mind doesn't mean she didn't do something - though hell if she knows what, exactly.
The tree seems different.
She sips her iced tea and examines the shadows on the leaves. They blink and shimmer as the branches are stirred by natural breezes or the less natural gusts that follow larger vehicles, and they don't seem to say anything. Rather, the sense that she gets from them is… anticipatory. Like a little kid waiting to present you with a crayon drawing or some macaroni art, hushed but barely repressed, seconds away from impatiently bobbing up onto their toes and finally tugging on your sleeve and saying look.
What is it waiting for? Who is it waiting for?
A proper breeze rolls down First Avenue, stirring the leaves. … Ssssssssssssunsshhhhhh…
She sits up sharply, one foot scooting along the sidewalk, feeling as if someone has thrown a bucket of cold water over her despite the summer weather. She tosses a stupid, irrational glance over her shoulder at the trunk of the closest tree, as if trees talking to her is such a daily goddamn occurrence that she really needs to double check which one addressed her just now. The funny-not-haha part is that shadows do tell her things, tree shadows included, but not on a carthaginian first name basis. They don't… know her.
Well, this one evidently does. She can feel its awareness of her, like the blind reaching all plants do toward the sun. Maybe it's just the wind that makes it seem as if the tree is leaning toward her, a little, but it's not just the wind going, … Sssssssssssssssunshhhhhhhhhhh…
Gods and frigging angels. Are other people hearing this? Can other people hear this? She heaves herself to her feet and stumbles the little distance between the two trees. Her palm finds the rough bark first, and then, acutely aware that the bake shop has big windows and that it would be best to not look like a complete lunatic in front of her employers, she leans her shoulder against the trunk and pulls out her phone, pretending to fiddle with it.
To the tree… how in the hell do you talk to a tree? Does she even want to talk to it? Mostly she just wants it to stop trying for her name where someone with sharp ears might notice.
Maybe touching the bark, combined with her palpable confusion and consternation, is enough. Yesssssssssssss, whisper the leaves. The trunk sways almost imperceptibly, and the branches creak. Ssssssssunshhhhhhh...
She makes a quiet sound of complaint in the back of her throat - not so far removed from the creaking of the branches, really - and scowls through the screen of her phone. Quiet, she thinks. Enough.
The whisper of the leaves devolves into a wordless hiss, though she thinks she detects a hint of dejection - don't you like my macaroni art? - which she refuses to feel guilty about. She didn't ask the tree to start talking to her, and if she's hurt its feelings… well, she didn't think trees had feelings to hurt. They're not supposed to have feelings to hurt.
She pockets her phone and pushes herself away from the trunk. Her little break is over, or will be over soon enough to excuse her going back inside now. There's a wordless rustle from the leaves, and Sunshine gives the tree a quelling look. Then she deliberately turns her back on the thing and walks back into the shop.
There's a faint chime as the door swings shut. The tree gives its branches a ruminative shake. Quietly, only to itself, it finally manages, … Sssssssssunssshhhhhine.
