Sunrise Tulips

That light is great on you. Really. It's like magic hour, but just on your face. Amazing.
Lucinda exhales, nods. A tight smile. A smize, her niece calls it. Her default expression when she's pretending to engage. The kid's a smartass. Definitely family.

She's looking at the top of her screen, the glowing green dot, losing sight of Glen for a moment.  Video calls are their new norm. Luce struggles with where to look, her gaze roaming over the flattened pixelated surface, trying to make eye contact then realizing the futility of it all. The two of them staring into some fixed point in space, conscious of performative listening, so neither of them feels ignored. Can't risk that. Not when the internet connection is failing.

She tilts her head up and angles it into the beam of light that peaks out over the market rooftop. 6:23 am, early May rise. Senses it across her brow. It streamlines through the sliding glass doors and a layer of sheers she hangs over the plastic, yellowing verticals. Anything to obscure her from the courtyard clatch. The nosy parkers who peer into other boxes in the sky.

A knock on her door.
Hang on, Glen- someone's here.
Who? No, wait- what? No one's supposed to be out of their apartment. We're in lockdown.
Yeah, I don't know Glen, that's why I'm going to check.
Luce- it's 6:30 am. What the hell is going on?

Sigh.
Come on, Luce- I have two minutes then I have to go. What are you doing?
Glen. I am going to look through my peephole and talk through the door. Maybe they need help.
Bigger sigh. This time from both.
Ok, you know what? You go. You just-
Glen-
I'll ping you later.
Beep-boop. The green light fades.
Knock knock knock. More of a tap tap tap.

Luce closes the laptop and stares into the sun, a single pin prick now on her face. As she heads to the door she hears a body walking away, the fire door opens and suctions closed seconds later.
Hello?
Luce flips the deadbolt up using her elbow- she hasn't washed her hands after the keyboard.
Pulls the door handle open using the hem of her sweatshirt.
Cellophaned tulips, tight in their blooms, hang in a grey plastic shopping bag off the handle.
No note, no idea who or where or what or why.
Just because.
She smiles. Ear to ear.
Calls out out down the hall in the direction of the escape.
Hello? Who's there? Hello? Who's the flower genie?
A beat. Two.

THANK YOU.

Thank you.

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