Ainsley dreamt of them sometimes. Black orchids. Not the fake black, either. Not that false bit of darkness you saw out of the corner of your eye on a hike and thought, could that possibly be… and wandered over only to see…purple. A good, dark eggplant purple, to be sure, but not black. No, she dreamt of true black orchids. Impossibly black orchids, with a pouting lower lip as dark of the bottom of a well and a buttercream throat streaked like a shooting star.
In her dreams the orchid was bewitching. It didn’t smell sweet or nice. It smelled deep and musky and shady, blanketing the air with a lush intoxicating scent. It clung to tree trunks with spidery green fingers, flowers almost lost in the dappled shadows. Unwary men wandering through a forest of black orchids were left stunned, staggering drunkenly under the orchid’s scent, fingers clenching and unclenching with the need to touch.
In her dream Ainsley wrapped herself in a dress of black orchids and wandered under the still moon. Fireflies rushed from the trees in a glowing cloud, hovering in front of her to light her way. Leaves swayed musically to the rhythm of her footsteps and the nightly chorus of owls and frogs fell into respectful silence as she passed. In the shadows, she could feel eyes watching. Wanting.