Savage Bloom

Watching him was perhaps the most exciting part of the day, no matter which day of the week he chose to come in. It was usually Fridays, which was easy to remember because it was the only day we stocked carnations. He would appear through the front doors at dusk, always buying a bouquet of them.

We had a steady flow of customers daily: neurotic teens, dreamy-eyed young adults my age, middle-aged patrons, and a few gray heads — I’d seen them all.

No one drew my attention like he did, though.

He was quiet, I think. At least in the flower shop. He didn’t make small talk or ramble on about the recipient of the flowers he was buying. And she was lucky, whoever she was, to be receiving flowers every week. She must have been fond of carnations — they were the type he sought out most often.

The way he lingered near the flowers made me think he knew something I didn’t. It was exhausting to hide the fact that I watched him. I liked to engage myself with something bothersome — like cleaning up rose stalks with a thorn stripper. It looked like something that required concentration, but years worth of experience meant I could do it subconsciously, which awarded me the grace to stare.

And stare I always did.

He was fortunate with his looks, all rough edges and raw masculinity that contrasted nicely with the flowers. Dark hair fell in careless waves that curled at the nape of his neck. They were the only thing that looked soft about him — not his broad chest, which filled his clothes perfectly, nor the arms that looked like they could pick me up like a damn rag doll —

Shit.

Back track.

I shook my head, trying to shake myself free from the path my thoughts were headed down. They were unfamiliar, but begged to be indulged. I didn’t think indulging them was a good idea.

His eyes, a deep, stormy gray, flicked to mine. My breath hitched. There was something unreadable in them, something dark. He didn’t look away, and my skin prickled, heat curling low in my stomach. For a split second, my brain and body fell out of sync, and a thorn pricked my finger. I couldn’t recall the last time a rose thorn drew blood. I broke eye contact to look down at the growing drop of blood escaping my pale finger. Quick, I brought it up to my mouth.

Afraid to look up again, I turned away and moved to the fridge to prepare another order. I’d return to the roses later.

I didn’t watch him again until he left.

*

I was scared of the rain. Not the soft kind that felt like a weighted blanket while I read a book or baked something warm and sweet to complement the weather, but the raging, relentless kind that made being home alone unbearable.

The kind that hammered against the roof of the flower shop with its relentless, single-toned roar was the one I couldn’t stand. The worst part was that I was alone, plunged into pitch darkness when the power cut out a minute ago.

I didn't mind the dark, but it was followed by the rain, so it terrified me, reminded me of my solitude. A solitude that I didn't choose — never chose — but was my constant companion.

I pressed the power button on my phone, the bright light pushing back a small circle of darkness. I slid off the couch I’d been lying on and carefully navigated my way out of the back room.

Clutching my hand to my chest, I tried to ignore the loud unnerving rainfall as I rounded my way to the front room, where I was sure Stella left a lighter and candle in one of the drawers.

The main work station was a spanning wooden table occupied by pots of flowers: roses, carnations, tulips and peonies, filling the air with their scent as there wasn't sufficient lighting to showcase their beauty.

The shelves and fridges were filled with flowers, some hanging on beams above me serving to beautify the shop. I was surrounded by their beauty, but this was the one time I couldn't appreciate that fact.

My hands shook as I rummaged through the first drawer, then the second. I found the candle first, then the lighter — our go-to when the hot glue machine wasn't suitable.

After flicking the lighter on and lighting the candle, I pushed back the curtain of hair that formed around my face so it wouldn't meet the flame, then looked up and around the shop that felt a little less frightening now.

The front room had no blinds or curtains, just wide-spanning glass windows that offered an unobstructed view of the flowers, day and night. It was dark outside since the power had gone out. I couldn't make a single thing out, and as I clutched the candle in front of me with one hand and my phone with the other, I realized that anybody outside could see me standing here while I would be totally unaware of them.

The thought of someone watching me almost made me blow out the candle on reflex, but I held myself and rushed back to the back room. I waxed the candle on a non-inflammable surface and laid back on the couch.

I stayed awake for the next hour, drowning in thoughts. In that moment, I felt awfully insignificant — painfully aware that the world kept spinning and time never stopped ticking, no matter what I was going through. The only person who filled my life with meaning and purpose was dead, laid to rest in a congregation of people that never quite knew her, leaving the only person who did behind.

And then morning came, and I got ready to return to the house that was slowly being stolen from me — a house that no longer felt like home.