flourish |ˈflʌrɪʃ| verb
1 [no obj.] (of a living organism) grow or develop in a healthy or vigorous way
2 [with obj.] wave something about to attract attention
“This is never going to work.” She says.
Monica is sitting, sullen, far away from the roof’s edge – where falling is inevitable. She is pulling at the threads sticking out of her sweater cuffs, waiting. It feels bad to be waiting like this – like she’s waiting for nothing, but when D pulls her out of bible study, out of the blue, and tells her they have to wait, she really isn’t willing to put up a fight. She doesn’t have any good points to make against him anyway.
“How can you be so sure of that, ma cherie?” D asks her, certain, steady voice. He is standing tall before her with his hands in his pockets, face to the sun. There are fingers pulling at the corners of his mouth, this look suits him so well (was made of him). He could fit in a Renaissance painting. Monica doesn’t want to speak, that certain, steady voice makes her anxious to give any answer at all.
“It just, doesn’t- doesn’t sound like it’s going to work out. It sounds too risky.” she fumbles with her answer, sure he will ask her to say it again because of how quiet her voice is. But he doesn’t. Somehow he always hears her.
“How can you say that?” he looks straight down at her, and when she looks back up even the sight of him standing up with the sky behind makes her head turn a little. “It is not the plan that matters, but how it is executed. And with us doing the executing, nothing could go wrong. Unless, you doubt the executors.” He bends a little and asks her, “Do you doubt us, Monica?”
She shakes her head.
“Then why so unsure?” he asks.
She cannot answer, not with actual words, at least. “No reason to stay stuck in the past.” he continues. “You are a new person now, a new Monica.” With every word he moves his arms, so those metal rings on his fingers gleam in the light.
“Look at how you’ve grown, flourished. Every single part of you is aching to be used the way it should.” He is flinging his arms around madly as he says the words, and though that is the right way to describe the movement, it doesn’t look half as crazy when he does it. He flourishes them like they are more instruments to put together this grand plan of his. He flashes her a bright-eyed smile and turns around to face the view. His back doesn’t compare to the vivid dance of limbs, but it is still so much better than most.
He is always telling her – she is constantly growing, she is becoming new with every second, every single breath of hers is a new one. This world doesn’t allow for things to stay the same. Those who don’t catch up are the ones who suffer the most. She looks up to the right to see people pouring out of the music hall on Judy’s street, in the distance, like a little rivulet opening up. Her eyes go back to D’s back, the straight line that it carves into existence. Well, if he says they can do it then she knows they can.
“Today, standing on top of a roof.” he whispers to the city. “Tomorrow, kidnapping the prime minister’s daughter. Would you look at us and how far we’ve come.”