The Misty Afternoon by Ani Arutyunyan

A small white gazebo,

tucked away in a thick blank of nature’s wild creations, is standing tall amongst rubbles of once striking construction. Years of exposure to humid mist have left its mark on it, leaving burst bubbles of paint as a bitter reminder of its constant presence. Throughout years, it became a source of amusement for June, creating a perfect outlet for her wandering mind: each new blister morphed into ridiculous shapes and forms, and, when combined with artistic strokes of her imagination, turned into a scene akin to those she loves to see in the local cinema. For years, she strongly believed that there is no greater way to escape the rush of emotions that her psyche is inclined to produce. Though lately, that belief has been challenged times and times again by the all-consuming presence that currently looms over the shabby table in the middle of the gazebo. It's magnetic, so powerful it sticks to her mind with an unimaginable might and pulls it around like a puppeteer. It smears away the freshly painted scenes of jest and mirth, clearing up space for the only relevant theme to exist in her consciousness – the brown haired mess, currently hastening around the porcelain tea set that has been stolen away from aunt Rose's house the day before the tea party.

Each of their movements comes with a rhythmic sway of lengthy hair, creating a hypnotizing force that June is unable to resist. With eyes glued to the person in front of her, June muses: they resemble an image of a weeping willow, ruffled by a gentle spring breeze; long tangled branches are stretching out to deliver soft, tickling touches to anyone in its vicinity. The picture sends a row of goosebumps along June's limbs, causing her to break free of the spell in a flustered hurry and search for another distraction. It's too dangerous to stay in such a vulnerable state after all, to bear all of her feelings right here and now. Her wandering eyes skim through the closed space for a minute or two, failing to find another image worthy to be burned right into her eyes. The paint blisters have long-lost its appeal to her, blending in with the rest of the dull surroundings.

Soon, June's futile attempts are cut short with a barely noticeable brush against her knuckles. A cheerful voice fills up the space. They ask, "Are you ready for the party?"

She can only muster a simple nod, feeling a familiar rose burning her face. A playful glint that meets her gaze sends June into another spiralling episode. An overwhelming urge to strip them bare, right to their bones, to get to the very core of their being and dissect it into millions of pieces overcomes her body. She needs to crack them open, to uncover their true nature and discover by what mysterious means they make their haunting presence so persistent in her seemingly arduous mind. She tells herself it is merely caused by a scientific interest, instilled in her by countless evenings in her father's laboratory that were spent watching elaborate experiments and trials. Though the lie is so shallow, so hollow, even the naive would see right through it.

Another interruption halts her pondering. June notices a freckled hand reaching for the selection of expensive looking boxes, filled to the brim with fragrant content. She rushes up to remind them of her preference in tea, but their reply is quicker.

"I know, I remember."

To be remembered, to be thought of – what a wonderful feeling. They remind June of a candlelight that warms her stiffened, numb fingertips during frosty nights; that sends a wave of tingling sensations as delicate as the ringing of a glass wind chime straight to the hollow of her ribs. A candlelight, each flickering of which creates shadows so perplexing, so odd she can't help but stare at them all night long. The flurry of emotions is too intense for her to handle, impossible to soothe with a simple daydreaming. A porcelain facade she tries her best to maintain acquires a new fracture, revealing one more truth about her feelings.