There’s a rough beauty to his face that catches the light, crude and yet gem-bright.
Standing beside the gardener effused with such lush life, Myrtle felt like a hollow shell in comparison, her heart beat dry and brittle in her breast. However this frail resentment crumpled loamy when his green gaze met her shard-glass glance. Cloying, she breathed the garden heat into her lungs and suffused throughout her blood, warming her very core. The green and good man took her heart in his lily fragrant hands, cradled like a new flower bud – in that tender grasp Myrtle could only bloom.