green (fiction two)

The green had been pressing in at the windows for about a week. The vines and leaves had first filtered the sun into every variance of the shade. Then the display of nature had become aggressive, flattening leafy fingers against the glass, seeming to desire entry. The pale tendrils curling from and back around the vines were delicately fashioned bits of jewelry, decorating the tiniest of green wrists and fingers.

Each morning she would inspect the changes made overnight. The growth was thicker, the sunshine less able to thread its way in, the pressure on the window more forceful.

One morning, at her desk, she felt the tiniest graze of movement on her ankle. When she looked down, her ankle was encircled with a perfect ring of green, miniature leaves shining like jewels. It was incredibly beautiful and she didn't remove it, only pulled back the curtain to find the place where the glass had finally given way.

By lunch time, her whole leg was enshrouded in green. She felt as if she had been attired by a royal dressmaker. The leaves hugged gently against her skin, clinging carefully through the material of her trouser leg. She remained at her desk through lunch, moving as little as possible, relishing her recreation as something magnificent and wonderful.