Flowers

The flower shop rested gently between two much bigger buildings that towered above its whimsical design with boisterous bricks and long, white windows. In the morning, the sunlight burnt across the top of the hill, making the pavement sparkle. The sunlight poured carefully into the small valley where the flower shop resided and flickered off cars parked on the sides of the busy road. People, like grains of sand, moved along the sidewalks blindly. A morning coffee, a nice woman, a simple act of kindness by the man in the hotel parking lot. It was a quiet city, a pleasant one.

All the shops were cozy, all of them inviting. Yet one stood out, one shop in the block pushed all the other buildings away. It was the flower shop. A brilliant green, fantastic white shutters, and a front porch with many a flower happy to enjoy the sunlight that came so beautifully across the newly painted handrails. It was a log cabin in a metal forest, a cup of water from a sea of oil. Many people found their way into the tiny shop, but today was different. A single customer…

His name was Robert Clemmens, a simple man. Or so it seemed to Laura, the shop owner. She was sweeping the tiled floor as he walked in. The tiny bell above the door rang; he looked up and laughed, almost startled by it. “Good morning,” he said, smiling to the woman. She returned the gesture as he went over to the displays and began browsing.

He was wearing a long sleeve shirt, tucked into beige khakis. His face was young, shaped beautifully during the two decades he’d been living. Laura couldn’t help but look up from her sweeping; yet Robert’s own eyes loomed over the flowers longingly. She sighed against the lilies in the corner. He turned around. Her face grew red, “Sorry, I’m just… tired.”

He looked at her for a moment longer and then laughed. “I understand,” he said softly. And then he was looking at flowers once more.

Laura had learned from her mother that a lone man in a flower shop was surely not the man to get caught up with anyway. So she began sweeping again.

“Excuse me,” the man said suddenly, his voice echoing across the shop. There were no other customers.

Laura looked up. “Yes?”

The man approached slowly. “I need a flower, a special one,” he said.

Laura laughed at first; she thought he was making a joke. Then she retracted. “Oh, I’m sorry… what do you mean?”

The man looked around nervously, he seemed uneasy now. “There was a mistake, a mistake that can’t be fixed,” he said. Laura looked confused. “My wife,” he explained. “I need to say that I’m sorry.”

“Ah,” Laura said with a smile. “Now I understand.”

The man looked even more anxious now. “I’m Robert,” he said holding his hand out and avoiding more talk on the subject.

“Laura.” She took his hand and shook it lightly. His fingers were cold.

A moment of silence passed. “Well Robert,” she finally said. “I think I have just the thing.” She walked him over to a small bouquet of purple flowers. “Ageratum houstonianums,” she said with a smile as she handed him one. He took it in his hands. It was gorgeous. The tiny petals came away from the center like ribbon.

“It’s perfect,” he said, still observing the flower.

“They’re good for drying too,” Laura said.

He looked up. “Good, where do I pay?”

“Oh, over here,” she said. Robert grabbed the entire bouquet and brought it to the front where an old-time register sat atop the counter. She punched in a few numbers and looked up. Robert was gone, walking out the front door, the flowers in his hand. She was so confused she almost didn’t see the money on the counter. But after a slide of her hand, she felt it falling onto the floor, bill after bill. She looked around in amazement. Hundred dollar bills were spread across the colorful tiles. She jumped up and ran to the door, crumpled gobs of bills in her hands, the tiny bell rang as she opened it. She looked around frantically, but he was nowhere in sight.

Robert had taken the money out of his bank account earlier that day. All he wanted were the flowers. Now, he was walking home with his life in his hands. It wasn’t long before his apartment complex reared its ugly head around the corner. He walked in and went up the rugged steps, taking them one at a time. Dust floated in the air around him, his presence seemed unwanted. Yet he pressed on, the flowers in hand.

He could hear no noise coming from any room, and for this he was thankful. The numbers appeared on his right, ‘125’, his room number. He unlocked the door with the key in his left pocket, careful not to drop the bouquet. The wooden slab creaked open, the sunlight from the window igniting the dust particles in the air even more than before. Everything was still. The kitchen had no shimmer, the living room no life. He knew she was coming. She said she’d be there at noon; it was nearly quarter to.

Robert walked in and shut the door behind him, leaving it unlocked. He pulled off his shoes, keeping the flowers in the hand he wasn’t using. A deep and elongated sigh emerged from the depths of his being. He knew she was coming.

Finally, he set the flowers on the table across from his bed. Only for moment though. He went over to his dresser and rummaged through the cluttered drawers. He found it.

Checking to see if it would work, he moved back over the table and grabbed the flowers. With both items in his hands he drifted slowly to his bed and lay down, his head against the soft, woolen pillow, the flowers resting gently against his chest in his left hand.

He looked up at the ceiling, at the blank square, the void of nothingness. Then, he pressed cold metal to his skull. With a deep breath he pulled.

His body shifted, the metal fell against the wooden floor. Yet the flowers remained there, on his chest, for her to find.