The hum of the air conditioner’s outdoor unit mingled with the chirping of cicadas as I sighed for the umpteenth time in front of the wardrobe. The pink dress was too sugary, the denim set not distinctive enough—until my fingertips brushed against that navy tea dress—the one he’d said “suits your eyes perfectly” at last year’s birthday. My phone vibrated on the bay window: “Open the window.”
As I slid the glass open, a mint-scented breeze carried flecks of golden light inside. He stood beneath the old locust tree, waving up at me with a backward-facing white baseball cap. A blue-and-white gingham cooler rested in his bicycle basket. “Iced plum syrup,” he said, shaking the glass in his hand—the clinking of ice cubes was as crisp as silver bells—”with your favorite perilla leaves.”
Cycling along the moat, the sunset dyed the clouds the color of strawberry milk. He suddenly hit the brakes, the bike wheels crunching over roadside foxtail grass: “Look!” Two egrets burst from the reeds, their wings skimming the water’s ripples and our overlapping shadows, dissolving into a gentle haze in the twilight. I reached for the manga peeking from his crossbody bag, my fingertips accidentally grazing his wrist—warmer than the melting ice in the plum syrup.
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