It was supposed to snow, so she went early Friday morning and drove to a florist in the next town over. She left very early, just after her husband had gone to work, because the house was too quiet. The shop was empty when she arrived. After touching the petals of the flowers in each bucket, she asked if they had red peonies, or something like poppies, but that wouldn’t stain. She told the man in the shop that she couldn’t stand when poppies stain and showed him her fingertips, now red. He said that he would check in the backyard, and she could come, but it was cold, December, and she said she’d wait inside. While he was gone, she made sure to smell most things in the shop—candles, bar soaps, and, of course, the flowers—and washed her hands in the corner sink. She hoped to be browsing when he came back, as though she was perfectly comfortable standing in rooms alone. He returned with his arms full of different red bouquets and set them down on the counter between them.
The florist was a middle-aged man with sun-tanned and freckled skin. He didn’t ask what the occasion was, but she told him the flowers were meant to make the house look nice for her friend, and he pretended to believe her when she said it was really her who is so particular. The florist wore a white apron over his flannel that was holed from cigar burns. As he listened to her, he was pulling vases from a cupboard to place each bouquet in, so she could see how they’d look on display. He’d just arrived at work but had been up all night worrying about what would happen to the flowers if it snowed, and he was in a small hurry to move them to the backroom before afternoon.
She gave the florist her name, Sally Hawthorne, and her telephone number and new address, and asked if he would put her name in the system. She explained that she and her husband had just moved, that the house didn’t feel like home, so she’d been looking for somewhere nice to buy flowers, but found nothing worthwhile near her. She didn’t know anyone in the area, so she’d done her research online. The florist had finished arranging the flowers, and showed her the three options he’d put together. They each looked quite similar, and none of them would leave a stain, he claimed. The woman looked at each bouquet, then put her hands to her cheeks, to steady herself and conceal how they’d blushed when she imagined her house made a home with the flowers.
“Oh,” she said, “The thing is I really don’t know anything about flowers.” She considered asking him to prepare a few more options, so she could linger for a bit longer. She giggled uncomfortably and tried to meet eyes with the florist, who was looking out the window at the backyard.
“Excuse me,” she said, “Sir, I would really love it if you just picked the best one for me.” The florist examined the bouquets and grabbed the bunch from the middle vase and began to wrap them. She noticed how tenderly he touched them.
“How long until you can get them in water?” He spoke very few words, just necessary information.
She pulled up her jacket sleeve and checked her watch. “A couple hours, maybe. I think my friend will be delayed by the snow. I was hoping to go to a few more shops before going home.” She thought he might ask her another question. He finished wrapping the flowers and rubbed his fingers on one of the petals, then held them up to her. They were unstained. She smiled, very relieved. “Not another flower shop, of course, just somewhere to buy some cheese and laundry detergent.”
The woman and the florist then stood across from each other with only the counter between them. It held the cash register, a jar of pencils, and a large book with pages that were crinkled from being wet, then dried.
The florist bent over the large book and wrote about her order in a dull-tipped pencil. She watched carefully, and corrected his spelling, adding that her last name ended in an “e.” It was her husband’s, and she wanted it to be right. The woman studied his coarse hands, observing his calluses, his bitten nails, his bare fingers, and wondered if he was married. She was a wife and planning for children someday, and it seemed to her that a man the florist’s age must have a wife, or a child, or just be very much okay with being alone. She knew, surely though, no one could be very much okay like that. The florist finished writing, added her to the system, then rang her up and printed a receipt. She picked up the bouquet of red flowers and sniffed them.
“They’re wonderful,” she said, and reached over the counter to place a hand on his shoulder. She wasn’t sure why she’d done this, but he placed his hand on top of hers, holding them in place.
“Take care, Miss,” the florist said, finally looking up at her before moving his hand. “It’s really a beautiful bouquet.” She nodded and wrapped her now available hand around the base of the bouquet, still worried about staining, and stood there a second longer than necessary before leaving.
When she stepped outside, the air was biting, and the car was parked around the corner. The woman tucked the bouquet between her thighs, just above her knees, and reached into her coat pocket for her black leather gloves. She pulled out her hand, now holding her damp gloves, and her fingers were a bit red. She looked at them, sniffed, then pressed her fingers into a petal to confirm it. The blood smelled like her husband, of course, although she decided that was just her hand soap. The florist was right, the flowers didn’t stain. She wiped her fingers along the paper wrapping, leaving faint streaks. Snow, then, began to fall and she wondered how late her friend would be and what she’d do when her husband wouldn’t make it home from work.
Laila Hartman-Sigall stops the Nassau Weekly…and asks us to smell the flowers.