Hindsight: I’m sitting in a pillow of clovers, hoping to find my luck

I wrote this little short story today. It's a little cheesy, but I think that's necessary every now and again. Hope you like it and I'd love any feedback :)

Clovers

I’m at the park again, day dreaming. It’s hard not to when the earth around me has exploded with green. The trees are heavy-shouldered, weary from bearing the burden of a weekend full of rain.

I’m sitting in a pillow of clovers, hoping to find my luck. In the midst of green are tiny white flowers, smaller than baby’s breath, and little purple buds, hiding beneath the overgrowth. Those fuzzy flowers, the ones that lead to dandelions are here too. Most people look at them and see weeds, but I see magic. I love anything you can wish on.

Here, in my little patch of clover, I imagine a fair skinned beauty. Sun dress fanned out around her, legs hidden by the clover and buds. She’s reading a book, Jane Austen probably, maybe a Bronte. She’s not afraid of being cliche and sighs heavily as she holds the book to her chest and relishes in the mystery of where her Mr. Darcy might be. She lies down, blanketed in green, with one arm over her delicate forehead as she gazes up at the sky. The sun is desperately trying to make itself known to the world, and as it pushes the clouds aside, she closes her eyes and lets her skin drink in the light. This is her Eden, her Utopia. She feels like Mary Lennox in The Secret Garden, alive with nature and comfortable in her solitude.

Despite the many constants in life, solitude is rarely one of them. She hears footsteps, slowly approaching. They’re close, but not close enough to warrant a reaction on her part. She tries to slip back into her dreamlike world, where only she, the clover and the sun exist, but it’s no use. Her trance is broken. The plurality of humans has always complicated man’s relationship with nature.

The footsteps are far enough away to mean they are not meant for her, but close enough to be annoying. She silently curses her intruder and sits up, opening her eyes slowly as she goes. The light from the sun blinds her for a moment, her dark pupils shrink and a shadowy outline of a boy, maybe a man, comes into view. She squints her eyes, wishing the process didn’t take so long to see things in the light after being in the dark as long as she had.

Finally the young man’s image comes into view. She quickly falls back into her bed of foliage, taken aback by his strong, yet nonintrusive frame, his dark hair parted like he went to Yale and yes, even an alabaster brow. She lay their silently, terrified by this man’s perfection. A gentle, organic sound begins to float above her, whirling around with the wind like cherry blossoms, teasing her ears like nymphs. He was playing the acoustic guitar.

Perfect, she thinks. Mr. Darcy has sat down next to me, I haven’t showered today and I’ve been laying in plants all afternoon. A lady bug confidently crawls along her forearm, making her feel, more than ever, like a woodland creature. There is only one way out of this, she decides as she promptly sits up again, completely in control of her faculties this time, and stands up with as much grace as any woodland creature I’ve ever seen.

This supposed Mr. Darcy quickly drops his hand from the neck of his guitar and looks in her direction. She quietly brushes the dirt from the front of her dress and cautiously meets his gaze.

“Do you frequently emerge from foliage to scare the song right of men? Or am I your first victim?”

His voice is smooth, the way water effortlessly glides over weathered pebbles in a stream. She imagines how that might translate to his singing voice and almost forgets he had attempted a conversation with her.

“I’m sorry, it’s just I’ve sort of claimed this area as my own, I thought everyone knew.” She cringes, slightly, at her attempt at wit, but he doesn’t miss a beat.

“Oh I see. Well miss, I suppose the sign must be on it’s way because I don’t see anything here with your name on it.”

She revels in his calling her Miss. Her mind shoots three years in the future, them lying in bed together, reading the newspaper and sipping french pressed coffee, and him calling her Miss, a nickname to remember the first day they met.

Her absent response due to daydreaming didn’t seem to phase him. He added, “well I wouldn't dream of disturbing you and your clover, so I’d be happy to move to the other side of the park.”

“No!” She almost interrupts him and winces at her bad timing. “I mean, I have to leave any way, so I guess you can borrow it for today. But this isn’t a time share mister.”

He smiles genuinely.

Oh God, he has dimples, she thinks.

“It’s a deal. And thank you for your generosity...” he holds on to the remnants of the word, as if to ask a question.

“Ella,” she responds. “My name’s Ella.” she smiles a thankful sort of smile, exploding at the thought of actually getting to know this novel of a man.

“Pleasure to meet you Ella, I’m Henry.”

“Henry,” she repeats quietly, still smiling.

“Say, just so we don’t run into any border patrol issues in the future, is that bench past that tree over their fair game or is it part of the Kingdom of Ella? I come here the same time every evening wouldn't’ want to make another embarrassing mistake.” He smiles and winks at her.

Keep it together old girl.

“Hm. I suppose so, but only if you can get there before Pete the pan hander claims it. He’s a little territorial.”

“Well Pete and I will just have to discuss the logistics of sharing the bench, though I doubt it will be nearly as fun as it was with you.” Another wink. Her knees momentarily forget how to function. She nods and smiles and walks away slowly, careful not to trip.

Moments later she does trip though, over a tree root. She wants to sink into the ground right then and there, and start living as a tree gnome, never to see this wonderful specimen of the human population again.

She did cycle her way to her spot of clover again the next day. She arrived a little late hoping he would already be there, so she could redeem her exit with a flawless entrance. No sign of him, but right where he sat the day before was a small piece of wood plunged into the ground with a hand painted sign that read “The Kingdom of Ella. All trespassers will be sentenced to a lifetime with Pan-Handler Pete.” Tied to the sign with a purple string was a note Ella would always keep in a cedar jewelry box, explaining to her children and her children’s children how this wonderful man, with an alabaster brow, would come to love this fair skinned beauty, and forever call her Miss.