buttercups

Here's my commonwealth essay for this year... Finally finished the first draft. I hope you like it... one of the better things i've written.

Slow down, we're going too fast
"Slow down, we're going too fast." she'd said to me.
It was one of those moonlit nights, the kind that you almost never see and then invariably waste when you do. I'd taken her by the hand, crashing through the meadow, the grass-stains on our clothing smelling fresh and green - such that even the flowers might've smelled less beautiful, if equally pretty. I'd grabbed a handful of them - buttercups - and flung them playfully towards her, watching as she fumbled to catch them, succeeding only in losing her balance and collapsing the both of us into a grinning heap. There was a large one resting on the grass; I'd picked it up and offered it to her. The laughing stopped - abruptly she'd looked away, almost embarrassed to be caught like this. She'd closed her eyes slowly (I always thought she was cuter that way) and shook her head.
"Slow down, we're going too fast." she'd said. We'd had this conversation before. She was right... but I couldn't help wondering, "Too fast for what?"
"I know." I'd said simply; we were both too smart to get into anything we'd have regretted.
We parted with some understanding -she'd left the meadow quietly. I let her.

All this I thought of as I idly fingered the wasted buttercup. I had taken it impulsively out of the jar of water it sat in. It was dead, the three paper-thin, dried-brown petals crunching silently between my fingers - two were missing. The stem was hard and brittle and I knew it would snap if I bent it just that much. I sat on my bed, chewing my lip thoughtfully as I pondered this. "Too fast for what?" I queried the empty air. The buttercup didn't answer.

We were sitting in the cafe, sipping tea. I could almost perceive, just sitting on my bed, the trickle of people going in-and out, making noncommittal greeting noises as they rushed to some place. The tea was too sweet, and there was too much milk in it. There'd been a sort of awkward silence hovering in the air between us expectantly; I'd opened my mouth and said nothing at all. A waiter approached the adjacent table, exchanging bills and inane pleasantries. I sighed and gave up on speaking ; she giggled as I reached over to get something out of my bag. It was the buttercup - I'd taken it home and placed it in a jar of water, and it seemed even more sprightly this time, if anything.
The sight of it seemed to do something to her - was that a blush? But when she looked at me I could hear the words before they reached me.
Oh my gosh... I can't really take this. We're- we're going too fast. You know it - we're just sixteen. I've got things to do, and you've got things to do... It's not that I don't like you, but maybe this isn't the time...
She never said any of that, but I knew it. We'd had this conversation before. The passing of a breeze brought a pained look to her features, shifting her hair quietly as she sat motionless, eyes fixed on the little yellow flower. She tried to smile - and then the breeze died off. She left the cafe quietly, leaving me with the buttercup, whose petals seemed to be drying out somewhat. I considered placing it in the thin porcelain vase that adorned the table with other sorts of flowers.
The cafe was playing some muzak. It was terrible, but I pretended to listen to it. She was right and I knew it. I wasn't bitter - we were both too smart to regret anything. I paid the bill and left, pocketing the buttercup.

I stared, hunched over the flower, slumping on the edge of my bed. If I cry, could you use the water? I stared, as if that would make words sprout from it. Fast enough for what? I could just hear the whisper of what she would've said. It won't work. Not in this time. Maybe not ever - who knows? But I've got things to do, and you've got things to do. Me... I'm just not ready. We're going too fast, I've got a future to build! Maybe... sometime after. Who knows? A little ghostly face somewhere gave me a plaintive look, somewhat awkward on its stoic, yet somehow beautiful features, as if begging me to understand. I think she wouldn't have known either.
Who knows? But the buttercup won't answer me.

We were outside the restaurant. "Thanks for dinner." she said. She'd agreed shyly when asked - I know she still had reservations but I was happy she'd come. It was one of those moonlit nights, the kind that you almost never see. The air was crisp when I breathed it in, crisp and strangely refreshing... There were small silvery highlights on her blue shirt, and on the rims of her spectacles (she wore hers this time) cast by the full moon. We stood by the roadside, ankle-deep in grass. Cars could be seen approaching in the distance; they'd pass us by, getting to somewhere else. It seemed for a moment that we were still in the vast ocean of frantic movement...
There was a soft rustle as she shifted her weight awkwardly. "I... uh, I should... you know. Go. It's late." It was dark but I could see her smile a little. I grabbed something from my pocket and pressed it into her palm. I heard her gasp. I turned away. "Good night" I said. At that point something tugged on the shoulder of my jacket. It pressed something into my hand, closing my fist over it, trembled a tiny hesitation ... and departed.
In my palm was a buttercup with three petals... just three. I smiled a little. For real or not, there was something wonderfully raw here... something new and fresh that I didn't quite understand fully. It was good, though, in my heart of hearts I knew that. If she hadn't left we'd have shared a sober nod... it was good.

But that was two days ago. Two petals out of five, two days out of five - I knew what it meant. We're going too fast. Too fast for what, I wonder? It was a start, but too late. That was her last word to me; she died yesterday. Car accident - broke her spine. She was rushed straight to a hospital, but she never stood a chance. I can almost smell the irony of it... she was killed for going too fast. I found out this morning and the tears haven't come yet. I sense it's futile.
I would tell you that I can't encompass my grief, but I'd be lying. It's something else, something raw and painfully fresh that I don't understand. She left the world quietly. She was right, and I know it - we were going too fast. But sometimes when I'm alone I wonder...
Too fast for what?

I'd flung the buttercup against my cupboard door, cursing against tears that would never come and never be used. The buttercup was dead; it wouldn't grow on crocodile's tears. I'd picked the frail thing up gently... almost afraid that I'd hurt it. I'd gritted my teeth and pulled out the last three petals, hearing the brittle things snap quietly.
Maybe I'll never know.


-Cheeeers!
EDIT: Latest version as of tuesday 8.21 PM. This will be the final version, unless somebody finds a huge flaw and points it out before I retire.