The Florist
Mariyam Niaz 2T8 MAM
A baby pink rose; a massive lily; some baby’s breath. The florist’s arthritic hands pulse painfully as he slowly arranges the flowers into a bouquet.
The whole shop is bursting with flowers and vines; it is a small store, buckets and boxes scattered around the room.
The small flower shaped chime above the door rings as a young man strolls into the shop.
The florist stops arranging and smiles at him. “Good morning! How can I help you?”
The customer looks around. “I want to buy some flowers for my wife.”
“How sweet. Are you looking for anything in particular?”
The customer shrugs. “No, not really. Anything you might suggest. They’re all beautiful.”
“Yes, they are. But some are more special than others.”
The florist walks over to a tall orange flower and grasps its stem carefully. “Now, see, this one–this one will make it so that a tear will never fall from her pretty eyes.”
The customer tries to speak, but the florist moves too fast, now standing next to orb-shaped purple flowers.
“Oh, these ones you will most definitely want. Take these and her dreams will be filled with honeysuckles and sunshine.”
“I…”
The florist moves with ease through the crowded flower shop, with the young man struggling to follow him without knocking over any flowers or tripping over vines.
The florist’s eyes suddenly appear bright, presenting a bundle of tulips to the young man.
“Certainly these - these will quiet all those pesky thoughts in her head.”
The young man pushes the tulips away. “She wouldn’t want any of those.”
The florist lowers his voice. “Perhaps something a little different, then?”
He picks up a single black pansy. “While I cannot prevent death, this one will ensure wrinkles never taint her face.”
“Or this one.” He turns to show the young man blood red roses. “Something to ensure your wife never looks at another man again?”
The florist suddenly picks up a bouquet of baby’s breath. “And now these–these will make it so that she adopts all your opinions as her own.”
The young man stands firmly in the middle of the store. “I don’t need the flowers to do anything. I just want some flowers for my wife to look at.”
The florist sighs and goes behind the checkout counter. “Very well.” He pulls out a few white daisies. “These ones–they do nothing. And within a week or two, they will wither and die.”
The young man smiles for the first time since entering the shop. “They’re perfect.”
