Kindness looks beautiful on you.
The bouquet had a problem.
It was too beautiful to leave the shop.
This was inconvenient because leaving the shop was, professionally speaking, the entire point of being a bouquet.
It sat on the counter wrapped in translucent paper, wearing three layers of ribbon and enough flowers to suggest that someone had either fallen deeply in love or had something significant to apologize for.
Pink roses leaned against white peonies.
Tiny daisies filled the gaps.
Yellow ranunculus had somehow secured the best positions despite contributing very little to the negotiations.
The room smelled of damp stems, fresh leaves, ribbon, and that faint green scent released when a florist cuts a stalk.
Snip.
One more stem disappeared.
The bouquet became even larger.
This was not helping.
No Occasion
The woman who had ordered it arrived just after ten.
She looked at the bouquet.
Then at the florist.
“Beautiful.”
The florist smiled.
“Birthday?”
“No.”
“Anniversary?”
“No.”
“Congratulations?”
“No.”
The florist waited.
There were only so many categories printed on the greeting cards.
The woman shook her head.
“No occasion.”
This answer seemed to confuse everyone except the flowers.
She had ordered the bouquet for a friend.
Not because the friend was ill.
Not because something terrible had happened.
Not because there was an achievement requiring recognition.
Her friend had simply been carrying a difficult few weeks quietly.
A tired parent.
Too much work.
A broken appliance.
Several small disappointments arriving with suspicious coordination.
Nothing dramatic enough for a card.
So the woman had bought flowers.
Apparently Tuesday was now an occasion.
Handle With Care
The florist lifted the bouquet.
The paper gave a soft crrrshhh.
The woman took it with both arms.
She had underestimated the engineering involved.
A rose immediately touched her cheek.
One branch caught briefly in her hair.
The daisies bounced.
A yellow flower turned toward her face as though personally interested in how this would end.
She laughed.
Then tried the door.
This required strategy.
Bouquet first.
Shoulder second.
Woman third.
For several seconds, the shop entrance contained mostly flowers and one visible elbow.
Then everything emerged successfully.
Outside, the morning was pale and warm.
Cars passed.
A bicycle bell rang.
Somewhere nearby, coffee beans were being ground, sending a dark roasted smell into the sweeter scent of the bouquet.
She walked carefully.
People looked.
One man glanced at the flowers, then at her, and smiled as though he had solved something.
He had not.
At the next crossing, a woman carrying groceries looked twice.
A little girl simply stared.
The bouquet continued through town, attracting theories it had no intention of correcting.
The Door
Her friend opened the door wearing old trousers and one sock.
The second sock was apparently experiencing difficulties elsewhere.
She looked at the flowers.
Then behind them.
Then at the flowers again.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
A pause.
“Who died?”
“Nobody.”
Another pause.
“Did you do something?”
“No.”
This was becoming harder than expected.
The bouquet entered the house.
Its fragrance changed the room almost immediately.
Roses.
Green stems.
Something faintly sweet.
Something peppery.
The cool smell of water when the wrapping was opened beside the sink.
Her friend touched one pale pink rose with two fingers.
“For me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The woman shrugged.
“Thought your week could use flowers.”
Her friend looked down.
One of the daisies trembled slightly as the wrapping settled.
“That’s a lot of flowers.”
“I may have lost control of the ordering process.”
A small laugh.
Then another.
“Coffee?”
“Yes.”
The flowers remained on the counter between them.
The Pickle Jar
They found a vase.
Too small.
They found another.
Also too small.
Eventually they discovered a large glass jar at the back of a cupboard.
It had once contained pickles.
The bouquet accepted this career change without complaint.
Water rushed from the tap.
Shhhhhhh.
Stems were trimmed.
Snip. Snip.
One daisy fell onto the counter.
Her friend picked it up.
“Casualty?”
“Independent thinker.”
She placed it in a drinking glass by itself.
Soon the extravagant bouquet stood in the middle of an ordinary kitchen beside unpaid bills, a bowl containing two apples, and a toaster with one unreliable button.
Her friend pushed the toaster lever down.
Nothing.
She tried again.
Nothing.
She tapped the side.
The toaster remained committed to its position.
“Still broken,” she said.
The woman handed her the coffee.
“Very loyal of it.”
They sat at the table.
The bills remained where they were.
A laundry basket waited near the hallway.
Someone’s phone buzzed twice and was ignored.
The friend took a sip.
Then reached over and turned the pickle jar slightly.
One pale rose had been facing the wall.
“There.”
They continued drinking their coffee.
Thursday
Three days later, several flowers had opened wider.
A few had begun to bend.
One rose dropped a petal beside the jar.
The toaster was still broken.
The bills had moved from one side of the counter to the other, which was not quite the same as paying them.
The single daisy remained in its drinking glass.
Her friend stood at the counter with her laptop open.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from a colleague.
She read it.
Typed a reply.
Stopped.
Her thumb hovered over Send.
She read the message again.
Then deleted her first sentence.
Typed another.
Stopped again.
Across the kitchen, the bouquet stood in the morning light.
She looked at it for a moment.
Then returned to the phone.
Her second reply was shorter.
And gentler.
She sent it.
The phone went quiet.
She picked up the fallen rose petal and placed it beside the daisy.
Then returned to her laptop.
One Daisy
By afternoon, sunlight had moved across the kitchen.
The single daisy was leaning dramatically toward the window.
She turned the glass around.
“There.”
An hour later she passed through the kitchen again.
The daisy had begun leaning back toward the window.
She frowned.
Turned it again.
Later still, she returned for water.
The daisy was once more facing the light.
This was becoming personal.
She put both hands on the counter.
The daisy offered no apology.
She looked at the window.
Then at the little glass.
“Fine.”
She picked it up and moved it closer to the light.
The daisy remained silent.
But somehow looked pleased.
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