He turns his eyes away.
If only they had known what she would become. Maybe they would have spared her her creation.
When he had watched her, when the world was new and he was just a boy, she had been radiant. She used to spin in carefree circles, throwing laughter into the undisturbed air, that marvellous dress of hers curling around her ankles.
It was almost as beautiful as she was, her dandelion dress. Tufty florets sprouted from every inch, bristling with delight as she passed her delicate hands through them.
He was the first boy to ever pluck one.
They had been so young then, so new, and he had found himself so intoxicated by her proximity, by the daring flash of her blue-green eyes, so besotted with her petalled dress, that as she raised her lips to his his reaction was almost automatic. A hand on her waist, a petal in his hand.
As she pulled away, he felt his wish well inside him, along with an unfamiliar pounding in his chest and stars on the edge of his vision, and he blew out a sigh of awe.
He should have known it, what they had meant when they had named him Wind; how his breath would pick up the air around him and whip it into a lazy breeze. A breeze which took three petals, three wishes wasted.
As she realised what he had done, her eyes widened in alarm and she fled before he could take any more.
His was the only wish she left unfulfilled.
*
She throws the gentleman's coat onto one of the rickety plastic chairs. She doesn't have a place to hang it, and she feels a sort of bitterness towards its neat hem and expensive silk lining. It reeks of things freshly bought, a scent which lingers on her even now.
He picks his way distastefully through the room. There isn't much to suggest that anybody lives here at all. The shelves are devoid of pictures, the mouldy couch lacks throws or cushions embroidered with everyday profundities. In her kitchen a plastic cup of coffee which has long since cooled sits abandoned, and one bowl with one spoon rests in the sink.
He crosses to the air conditioning unit and fiddles with the buttons, unsurprised when none of them glean any sort of response, and instead opens a window. The hinges squeal in reluctance as a warm current saunters into the room.
"Hot out tonight," he notes. Her head whips around at his words and she feels the tendrils of the wind begin to ruffle her dress. She crosses brusquely over to him and slams the window shut again. The air settles.
She holds out her palm.
"I see how it is," the gentleman sighs. He grabs his coat and pulls out a fat envelope from one of the inner pockets. "It's all in there, you can count it if you want." She peers inside. A flash of green. Then she tosses it on the empty coffee table.
"Let's get this over with," she says flatly, placing a limp hand in his and leading him to the bed.
As he kisses her on her passionless mouth, she plucks a floret from the hem of her dress and shoves it into his hand. He is all too happy to pull away. She tastes of ash and something ancient.
When he is gone she counts the money. Men used to pay her in all manner of things, she was promised roses, gold, empires even. When she was young she had taken them all.
She has learnt since then. Empires fall, metal rusts, what use has she for flowers?
She speaks the language of this place, the one they call America. She is just like all the others here. She has her price, she can be bought and sold, whoever bids the highest. She watches her monetary value dwindle with each remaining petal, she has enough left to keep her going yet. To outlive this world like she has outlived the others.
But she remembers the incident with the window tonight. He knows where she is now, she can dally here no longer. She collects together her money and her skirts and leaves the dingy apartment.
*
There is a hook on the back of this door where she hangs this man's coat, but he refused to take off his hat, much less look her in the eyes. Better that way, he won't see how grey they have turned.
This one is shyer than the others, he lacks the confidence of the men with their silken coats and their stuffed envelopes. He doesn't inspect the room like a spectator in a zoo, observing the habitat of the real life destitute.
She is kinder with him than she was with the others. She places a hand on his cheek, runs her fingers through his wispy hair. She allows herself to feel a superficial tenderness.
"What's your wish, sweetheart?" She asks, but his lips are on hers before he has a chance to answer. His kiss is sweet and desperate and achingly familiar.
He won't take a petal. Instead, he pulls away and removes his hat. Her eyes lock with his, and she realises too late. She tries to push him away, but his mouth has already formed a perfect 'o' and he is already blowing.
She yells, she screams, she cries out in protest as the gust whisks around her, billowing through her dress, plucking each floret from it, one by one, until there are none left and her dress is just a dress and she falls amongst the scattered blossoms and begins to weep.
"What have you done?" She sobs, turning to the wind. Then again, louder, "What have you done?" She gets to her feet and throws herself against him, lashing out in blind anger, but none of her punches land and her sharp words fall right through him. He holds her until she stills.
"You are free," he whispers.
"I am nothing," she spits. She tries to wrestle out of his grip but he holds her fast.
"You are beautiful," he insists, "you are not a dress, you are not your wishes. You are not the property of men who are willing to pay your price.
"And you are not alone."
He watched her all this time, through pharaohs and emperors and high priests and kings. With mighty storms he had blown away all those who dared to hurt her, and in return she had closed windows and doors to him and hidden from his touch.
But he has her now, and he holds her all night, and finally, as she stops struggling and he feels her arms tighten around his, his wish comes true.
*
She wakes up alone in the morning, surrounded by the floral carnage of the night before.
He is the wind, he has a world to attend to.
But just as she begins to feel alone again, through the open window a breeze tickles her arms.