Saprophytic

She was a girl that knew how to photosynthesize. She was nothing to look at; unless hair the consistency of wet noodles and eyes that were reminiscent of faded denim were something.

She always found it strange that there was nothing blue that could be considered repulsive, except her eyes.

It was January and cold, as expected of the season. The sky was gray and there was far too much snow on the ground. As she walked, she kicked it out of the way with the toe of her father's hunting boots. She was the first to wear them.

She toed slush out of her path until she reached the door of a pawnshop. By this time, she no longer needed to look up in order to find the alley and then the door. At least the heavy clouds made the grime innocuous.

"You do know that you can't pawn beer," he said before she had fully stepped across the threshold.

"So I've been told." She wiped her boots on the floor as he scowled at her. His eyebrows were only the slightest bit too thick, especially when he had such an expression. They had never looked good on him.

"Damn. It's been a year, hasn't it?" he muttered.  

"I wouldn't know."

"Don't be like that." His voice had softened, a fact that irked her greatly.

"Like what?"

"Angsty. It doesn't suit you."

"And don't you be acting all romantic." She stripped off her coat and tossed it on the floor before settling in a paisley-print armchair next to the heating vent that sometimes worked.

He sighed and continued to sort a mass of glinting items on the counter. She would have thought them gold, but no one brought anything respectable to this shop.

"You sure you're not part of the black market?" she asked, fiddling with some glass baubles dangling from a nearby lampshade.

"Positive. Although they may be very involved with me." She could hear the wink in his voice.

"I know you. You haven't gotten laid in over a year."

"A year exactly."

"Romantic again. Shut up."

"Sorry."

She looked around the shop, at the barren shelves and the ones covered in worthless trinkets. The place would be out of business soon. She was the only one that bothered to like it.

"Do you still have that book?" she asked.

"Huh?" He looked up from polishing a kid's watch and smiled slowly. "Oh. Shakespeare. I sold that."

She growled under her breath, coaxing an apologetic wince from him. "I liked that book."

"I know. I'm really sorry that you can't pawn beer."

"Do you think that's all I've got? Beer?"

He shrugged. "Sometimes."

"I hate you."

"I lov-"

"No."

Sighing, he set down the watch and walked across the tiny room to her chair, sitting down beside it and drawing his knees to his chest. She remembered when he had not looked so thin.

"Why do you keep doing this? Hasn't it been a year?"

"I don't want to hear it." She refused to look at him. She stared out the glass of the front window, past the coffee-stained mannequin bust wearing a hat probably made by a toddler and the only gold necklace in the store.

"I know."

"Then don't make me remind you." She continued staring at the necklace, watching as the light from the one working fixture reflected off of the beads. "Why is that necklace still there?"

"It's the best I've got," he said simply. "Why not display it?"

"Because it won't matter. No one comes in here anyway."

"You and I do."

"You and I don't count."

He looked at her, and this time she noticed. His smile was hesitant, a sure symptom of his plotting. "Come with me," he said as he stood.

She had nothing better to do, so she shrugged her coat back on as he went to get his. She raised an eyebrow when he locked the store, since no one would be stupid enough to waste their time stealing from it.

He led her down the street, hands shoved in his pockets, although she knew that he would rather be holding hers. She did not mind and buried her face in her ratty, red scarf as they pushed through the wind.

Her heart dropped thirteen stories when she looked up and saw an apartment building with a "Do Not Enter" sign carelessly slapped across the front door.

"No," she whispered.

"Yes." He held out a hand for the keys. Silently, she tugged a chain from under her shirt and handed it to him, keys on the end jingling all too innocently.

He unlocked the door and held it open, sweeping an arm in gesture requesting the entrance of the queen. She felt more like a damned man as she gingerly stepped onto the cracking tile.

He let door swing closed and led the way through the lobby and up the stairs. The stairwell walls now featured some artwork that belonged in an anatomy textbook or on the Discovery Channel. She did not bother to decide which.

They both knew to bypass the fourth floor. It felt like eternity, but when he opened the door to the roof, she knew that she had entered hell.

The snow came up to her waist, most likely covering a year's worth of debris. The skyline that it overlooked, once beautiful, was now swathed in layers of fog.

"Snow's coming," he remarked. Neither of them had left the doorway.

She glanced over at him. "Why'd you bring me here?"

"It's been a year. I felt like it was time."

"For what?"

He did not answer her question. "One year ago, I saw a lonely girl in a bar, I took her home, and-"

"Worst sex of my life."

"It was your first."

"Last."

He held a hand up to silence her. "I gave her the address of my shop. She came in the next day with a beer bottle and a necklace."

"And she sold both to buy more beer."

"Only the necklace, because you can't pawn beer."

She snorted. "So, what happened next?"

"She kept coming back. I never understood why, but I didn't mind. She interested me."

"Because you're a masochist."

"Probably. And this girl… she trusted me, so how I could I refuse keeping her around?"

"She didn't trust you. No one trusts you."

"Perhaps. But she told me her story, didn't she?" He looked at her for confirmation. She was looking at the snow. "Her sister had-"

"No," she spat, face deadpan. "No more story."

"Yes, yes more story," he persisted. "Her sister had been sent to prison, charged with arson."

She stiffened. "Stop talking." You're making me vulnerable.

He smiled sadly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "The fourth floor of their apartment complex had been set on fire. They blamed her sister because she was always the rebellious type, and had been at the crime scene."

She knew that he was looking at her, waiting for her to finish the story. "All the accusations were true. She… she was devastated. Her sister had been her idol, but her idol had almost… killed her." She felt the tears festering and she shoved them back.

This time, she let him hold her. "That's when I met her," he whispered against the shell of her ear. "I wanted to fix her."

"Don't expect her – me – to cry for you," she said stiffly.

"I won't. I never have."

"Good." She pushed out of his arms and crossed her own, in an attempt to make up for the lost heat. "My parents gave up on us after that. They just... left, you know."

"I know."

She nodded, satisfied, and let out the breath she had been holding for a year too long. It had been far too easy to say. "That's why I don't talk about it."

"I understand."

She did not tell him how much she hated that phrase, because he already knew. "Hey," she whispered instead.

"Hey what?"

"Hey, I know how to photosynthesize."

"Really?"

"But my eyes are the wrong color."

He took the rare opportunity to stare into her eyes without angering her. "I like your eyes."

"They're blue. Chlorophyll is green."

"So it is."

She was about to speak, but stopped and pressed a finger to her bottom lip, as if something had just occurred to her. "So even if I know how, I can't make my own food."

"How do you photosynthesize?"

She let a corner of her mouth quirk up. "You let the sun in."

It was funny. He had never taken her as one for metaphors. "I see."

"But I can't, because my eyes are blue. But you," she said seriously, "your eyes are green."