by Hachi Chuku

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

April Elizabeth Randall was the kind of girl that you just couldn’t help yourself being endeared to. Her delicate saccharine features complemented her sanguine personality so that you couldn’t frown at her for longer than a few seconds. When she turned to walk away, you dreamt of the moment in which your paths might cross again. I met her at the library in my hometown of Manhattan, Kansas when the leaves were still a brilliant green; not yet blushing from the promise of winter. I had a job working at the library on the campus of Kansas State, a work study position that allowed me to have my nose in a book when I wasn’t manning the shelves or doing sudoku puzzles.

She walked up to me carefully, wearing an orange tube top and high waisted flared jeans and asked me gently where she could find books on houseplant keeping.