Simple Complexity

A Simple Complexity

"You just wrote this?" I ask.

"Yup," she chirps.

"Like just now?"

"Yes sir," she smiled. "Also I crossed out a piece at the end of your portion because it was dumb and didn't make any sense."

I look at her and then back at the journal and then back at Dee. She wasn't wrong. I had added the last few lines just to close up the work because I was tired and done trying.

"What're you doing as a poli-sci major Dee? You got serious talent."

"I am a woman of many talents my friend. Some call it a gift-"

"I call it pure luck," I retort playfully. I walk back to my side of the patio table, tripping on my shoe lace in the process. I stumble into the chair, creating a great deal more noise than I am comfortable with. I take a quick glance around to see if anyone is staring and then turn my attention back to Dee, who is now looking straight at me with her face in her hands and a straw between her lips as she sucked up the last of her drink. She had a habit of chewing on her straws after she finished her drinks, which, of course, she hated about herself, but only made me like her that much more. More wisps of hair had fallen in front of her face. She blew them away a few times, but to no avail as they slowly fell back down in front of her eyes.

I fold down the corner of the page with "Flower" on it so that I can access it more easily when called on at Larson's writing seminar. Dee lets go of the straw in her mouth and sticks her hand into the empty glass. She fishes around for a few moments before pulling a nice big ice cube out and popping it into her mouth.

"You're disgusting," I say, shaking my head.

"And you're a poet who can't write poetry," she retorts.

"Harsh, that's harsh."

Dee shrugs and sticks her hand back in the glass to grab another cube. I roll my eyes and flip back towards the middle of the journal to a page titled, "DEE: Who are you really?" Dee looks up at the sound of pages flipping. Now it's her turn to roll her eyes.

"This again? How long are you gonna keep this up?"

"Until I figure it out," I reply, "Or until I die trying." The page is filled with a list of every single female name, that begins with the letter "D", that I could think of. The majority of the names had been crossed out, though new ones are written whenever I think of them.

"This is what you get for being my best friend of three months," I say with a smile.

Dee scrunches up her eyebrows again. "Look, it's not my fault that your room number happened to be three-fourteen which also happened to be my favorite number and happened to be on the same dorm floor as me."

"True, very true, but it doesn't change the fact that 'Dee' isn't a name. It's a letter, and it most definitely stands for something else."

"It doesn't," Dee replies matter-of-factly.

"So you're trying to tell me that if I somehow managed to get a copy of your birth certificate, it would simply say 'Dee Anagin' written at the top?"

"Yup."

"I don't believe you. Dee is like a spy code name or something. Are you a spy? Is that what this is? What're you FBI? CIA? Definitely CIA."

For a moment the table is dead silent. Then Dee bursts out laughing. It's beautiful, her laugh. Almost melodical. Sweet and tangy, with just the right amount of wheezing rasp like that of a forty-year-old dad at a barbecue.

"You get your two guesses for today," She snorts in between laughs, "but if I was really a spy I wouldn't tell you what my real name was because then I would be a really bad spy, wouldn't I?"

"You wound't have to tell me," I respond, "I would be able to tell from your facial expression."

"Oh, I'm sure. Lets see what you got."

I look down at my list and pick the next two that haven't been crossed off. I stare straight into Dee's eyes. Those teal green eyes that shimmer when the sun hits them. Those eyes that are easy to get lost in, even when they send daggers straight through your soul. I pause for a moment, forgetting what I was supposed to do. Dee taps the table with her nails impatiently.

"Well?" she asks.

"Right right," I say, flustered for another one too many times today. "Lets see."

I refocus my look. "Delilah."

"Ooooh pretty name. I'd like to name my daughter that someday. Maybe. Probably. Or my twelfth cat if I end up becoming one of those crazy old cat ladies because I can't find a husband. But no, sorry, not my name. Still just Dee."

"Wait twelve cats?"

"Twenty-seven actually, but that's a story for another time." We grin at each other. When she makes no further comment, I shake my head and move on.

"Okay, how about this? Denise," I say.

"Ew, no. Seriously? Denise? That's honestly disgusting. There's no way I am giving Denise energy, is there? Hard pass."

I snap the journal shut and slide it back into my bag.

"Was worth the shot," I shrug. I reach across the table and tap on Dee's phone screen. The screen lights up, displaying the time. Her lock screen is an image of a small white flower with a bright yellow center. It was pretty. Vibrant, even. Catches the eye. Kind of like Dee.

"You got class in six minutes, looks like," says Dee, "Better get going."

"Yeah, your right." I stand up, slinging my bag over my shoulder. Dee does the same. She looks at me with her arms out wide, reaching towards me.

"What's this? A hug?"

"Yeah," says Dee, "isn't that something best friends of three months are supposed to do?"

"Guess your right," I reply. My cheeks turn bright red for a second, but then it all washes away when she steps in close. I can smell the shampoo in her hair. I close my eyes and allow my mind to drift for just a moment. Though it was a moment too long as I did not notice Dee's hands moving suspiciously behind my back. Dee darts out from under my arms, a flash of red in her hands.

"Race you back to campus," She calls. I rush to follow, but hear the sound of books hitting the ground as my bag suddenly becomes much lighter. I turn around and realize Dee has fully unzipped my bag. I let out a sigh and kneel down to pick up the scattered textbooks. As I look around, I realize there was something missing.

"My journal!" I exclaim. "That brat."

I look over my shoulder but Dee had already disappeared up the street with the red notebook. I re-zip my bag and leave some cash on the table for the food, before dashing in Dee's general direction.

I almost trip on my way back to campus as I get distracted by a small group of white flowers, growing in an insignificant clay pot next to the sidewalk. They are similar to the one on Dee's lock screen. I am surprised to realize I haven't noticed them before. I make a mental note of their location so that I may possibly get one for Dee in the future.

By the time I make it back to campus my cheeks are flushed and I have two minutes to get to class. I look around frantically for Dee but she is nowhere to be found. Exasperated and slightly annoyed I begin my trek towards Professor Larson's class, beginning to try and think of an excuse for the missing assignment. Though I take no more than three steps before something catches my eye. A flat red journal lay on the bench ahead of me.

I jog up to the bench and peer down at the battered, old journal. It's mine. A single white flower lay across an open page. I pick it up and roll its stem between my thumb and forefinger before bringing it up to my nose. It smells peaceful. Fresh, like a morning after a rainstorm. Almost like... like Dee's shampoo. I look down at the open page. It's the list of female D-names, only this time all of the names have been crossed off. All but one that is. Down at the very bottom of the list, under all the scratched out guesses, in Dee's twirly, neat handwriting, was a single name, circled and underlined.

"Daisy."