*Darling, Yes*
*A neural novel featuring achingly beautiful people having heartfelt conversations about synaesthesia and sharing long-lashed glances - so far, so Bromeliad. What raises Darling, Yes head and shoulders over its predecessors … well, suffice to say that a revelation about the way the protagonist's mind works changes everything. It throws all your previous interactions into disarray and makes you wonder and doubt the entirety of Bromeliad’s back catalogue. We found ourselves dwelling on it for days afterwards.
We're not going to spoil it with more details so to sum up: look, just play it, all right? The only hint we’ll give you is: try accepting Rodrigo’s offer of violets after the second afternoon tea. What ensues is heartwrenching and amazing and gorgeous and there are so many moments like this at every turn. Seriously, what are you doing reading this? Play it already.*
[[Yes, Rodrigo]] ....
Now that you're this close to him, you can see his eyes are actually violet. Not blue, not gray, but the same color as the slightly wilted violets clutched in his left hand. He must have kept them in one of the picnic baskets during tea; you're sure they wouldn't have held up anywhere near this well in his pockets.
Behind him, a clump of elms, with Allegria in her white dress being pushed by one of her suitors on a wooden swing. Blankets are spread across the thick grass. On them: three teapots, the uneaten halves of sandwiches, a single line of marching ants, Marcus asleep in the sun with a straw hat pulled over his face.
"These are for you," he says. He holds out the violets, his hand trembling almost invisibly.
Take the violets [[triumphantly->Triumphantly]].
Take the violets [[helplessly->Helplessly]].
Take the violets [[passionately->Passionately]].
As you take the violets, his eyes meet yours. You had no idea he was your contact at the party, but this is it - the prearranged signal you've been waiting for.
You nod almost imperceptibly, then bite down on the transmitter concealed in your tooth. On the rolling lawn behind you, the picnic baskets begin to unweave themselves, wrapping filaments of wicker-wire around anyone within reach. Marcus screams as his hat begins to consume his face. Allegria struggles, swing ropes tightening around her throat. In the air around you, you can hear the high whine of homing missiles, no bigger than your little finger, seeking those who have tried to flee.
You draw Rodrigo close to you, within the radius of your personal shield, and watch the destruction.
[[Yes, that's right]].
[[No, that's not how it happened->Yes, Rodrigo ]].
Of course. That's right. That's exactly how it happened. You and Rodrigo, the violets, after tea. This is how the story ends.
The smell of violets fills your nose, sickeningly, overwhelmingly. Your hand goes out to take the bouquet of its own accord. The tickle of stems against your fingers feels red, the scent is banging sharp chords into your eardrums, your heart is racing, you take the flowers.
How much does he know? That she wore violet perfume when she held the knife to your throat? That when you brought her violets she pulled the petals off, one by one, and made you eat them, one by one, and after each one she thanked you? That when she kissed you, her mouth tasted like violet candy, when she said she loved you and only you forever?
These are the things you do not tell. These are the things you do not say.
[[Yes, that's right]].
[[No, that's not how it happened->Yes, Rodrigo ]].
It's what you've been dreaming of for years, and now it's happening. You, Rodrigo, the sun striping the lawn with gold, distant laughter, his steady gaze, the smell of crushed grass, the clink of glasses, the violets he holds out to you.
You throw yourself into his arms and draw his head down to yours. "Darling," you breathe into his ear.
But something isn't right. You feel him stiffen, pull away.
"I only wanted to thank you," he says formally, "for all your effort organizing this lovely event." You've knocked the violets out of his hand. They lie on the ground between you. He takes two steps backwards, bows, turns away.
You're still watching when he leans over Marcus, whispers in his ear. Marcus smiles, then snickers, then full-on belly laughs, looking at you the whole time.
It isn't until they beckon to Allegria that you can force yourself to turn away.
[[Yes, that's right]].
[[No, that's not how it happened->Yes, Rodrigo ]].
Now that you're this close to him, you can see his eyes are actually violet. Not blue, not gray, but the same color as the slightly wilted violets clutched in his left hand. He must have kept them in one of the picnic baskets during tea; you're sure they wouldn't have held up anywhere near this well in his pockets.
Behind him, a clump of elms, with Allegria in her white dress being pushed by one of her suitors on a wooden swing. Blankets are spread across the thick grass. On them: three teapots, the uneaten halves of sandwiches, a single line of marching ants, Marcus asleep in the sun with a straw hat pulled over his face.
"These are for [[you]]," he says. He holds out the violets, his hand trembling almost invisibly.
Take the violets [[triumphantly->Triumphantly]].
Take the violets [[helplessly->Helplessly]].
Take the violets [[passionately->Passionately]].
What is it Rodrigo even knows about you in the first place? That you pour tea with a graceful wrist? That you are the fastest runner in the relay races? That you can conduct an extemporaneous debate in iambic pentameter for twenty minutes without faltering? Is that really all you are?
"Rodrigo," you say, and put your hand on his arm. "No violets. But sit and talk with me."
It is the beginning of a conversation that will last a hundred years.