2
Abigail
The bell over my shop’s front door jingles one second before a handsome man in a well-cut suit steps through. He’s veryGQcover model-ish and makes me stand taller simply with his presence. It’s funny how a stranger can walk into your life and make you do things just a little differently; things as simple as standing, or breathing.GQlooks about thirty years old, his suit is a dark navy blue, and his shoes poo brown. His hair is slicked back and tempts me to tap it with my fingernails to see how stiff it is.
“Hello.” I paste on my customer service smile and play with a lily arrangement at my front counter. “Can I help you with something?”
GQstops halfway across my store and looks up.He has nice teeth.For some strange reason, my brain focuses on his nice smile.
“Hey. I’m looking for something for my wife. Something that says…” He pauses to think, giving my romantic heart time to topple into a silly swoon. Any man buying flowers for his wife earns a soft spot from me. “I dunno… how do you say ‘sorry for spending too much time with my secretary after work hours’?”
“Oh.” And my swoon blows up in smoke. “You… uh… okay.” I wipe my hands on my apron and think. “I guess it depends. Were you legitimately working those hours, or do you have something genuine to apologize for?”
He stops for a long moment and has the common decency to appear at least a little sheepish. “I’m gonna need a good arrangement. Or a good lawyer. Can you recommend either?”
I hate his stupid, horrible, cheating guts.
“So you want apology flowers. Okay, we can work with this.” I step around my counter and pick up the most dazzling bouquet of red roses I have. Palming the price tag before he sees it, I stop in front of him and fake a smile. “Roses. Definitely. If you have a lot of groveling to do, these will be a good start.”You cheating sack of cow poo. “They’re my last arrangement until I get more stock in next Thursday. Your wife will love them.”
“Okay, that’ll do.” He follows me to the register and pulls a fifty from his wallet.
“Actually, sorry.” I pull the vase closer before he swipes them and runs. “These are a hundred-ninety-nine dollars. Like I said, they’re the last I have until next week.”
“Two hundred dollars?” he balks. “Are you insane?”
“For an additional three dollars and ninety-nine cents, I can include a packet of flower food.”Smile, smile, smile.“Sprinkle it into the vase, and they’ll last a few extra days.”
“Two. Hundred. Dollars. For something that’ll die in a week?” It’s funny how he was handsome a moment ago, but is now uglier than my late grandmother’s flat-faced pug. “Most expensive sex I ever had.”
I recoil and scrunch my nose. “Ew.”
Five minutes after walking into my florist shop and snarling about wasted money, jerkface Mr. Smythe – according to his credit card – walks away minus three-hundred dollars, since I up-sold him to getting a nice vase, and the “Illuminate”spray for “prosperity and sheen”.
It’s packaged to make him think it’s something special, when really, it’s just tap water in a cute little spray bottle that I picked up from the dollar store for visitors like him.
I like to live a positive life, which means I hate to say the word “hate,” but I hate, hate,hatemen like him. There’s no need for him to cheat. He doesn’t have to lie!
How is it that she’s important enough to grovel to, but not enough to stay faithful to?
How is she important enough to marry, but not enough to respect?
Jerkface.
Mr. Smythe makes me want to growl, so when I swipe two hundred and fifty dollars from my register, leaving the original ticket price of fifty, and slam the drawer shut, I revel in the sound as it echoes over the music playing through the speakers that reach from the front door to the cool room right out back. I smack the extra cash into a jar beneath the desk and take a little satisfaction; that’s my good deeds jar, and it’s for women like Mrs. Smythe.
If I see a single woman having a crappy day, I’ll buy her a cup of coffee. If I see someone wander past my shop and sniff the flowers on display, only to walk away with a forlorn look, I’ll treat her to a free bunch, and accept her smile as payment. Men like the one that just came through here fund that jar, which provides double the satisfaction when I can make a woman’s day just a little brighter.
I hope Mrs. Smythe’s new flowers make her smile, and then I kind of hope she whacks him in the head with her new vase on her way out to find a lawyer.
The soft strains coming from my speakers help me focus on something nice, to pull in a deep breath, to replace my scowl with a smile, and then to open my eyes and continue working on the lilies that a local martial arts trainer ordered for his wife.
Not because he’s a cheat, but because he likes to make her smile.
My afternoon passes with hardly any interruptions. My main income doesn’t come from foot traffic and impulse purchases, but from functions; weddings, anniversaries, proms, and graduations. The beauty of buying a flower shop in a small town is that most events are given to me by default. It’s handy that I work hard and consider myself reasonably talented, but even if all I did was whack a bunch of weeds together and wrap them with a pretty bow, I’d still get enough work to keep the shop open and a salary flowing into my pocket.
“Abigail?” The front door opens again around three in the afternoon, but instead of scowling, a long grin spreads across my face. I know that voice. I even know the sound his size eleven boots make on my concrete floor. I know the smell of aftershave he brings as he comes closer, and when he pushes my flowers aside and pulls me into a tight hug, I go, because I know that hug too. “How are you doing, kiddo? You made me drag my ass all the way down here when you didn’t answer my texts.”
“Don’t say that word. And I’m sorry.” I drop down from my tiptoes when Nixon steps back and looks me up and down.