Scarification

Staying behind a flower shop, trying to sell your dream…

Not the easiest thing in the world.

“Hello, there,” said a customer. “I’d like the second batch of flowers right over there.” He gave me a penetrating stare, his hand outstretched as if demanding that I hand him the correct pair of flowers. My eyes fell on his navy coat. There was a hand gun inside there. I knew it.

I dug through the pile, not making a single glance or eye contact with him. What goes on inside of each customers head? Do they really want nothing more than to go after mere material, which endlessly leaves them unsatisfied?

“Azalias, those are the ones that I need,” he said.

“You mean roses?” I asked in an irked voice.

“Yes,” he said, not even making a single glance at my face.

“Thank you,” he said as I gave him the bundle of roses from his hand. His eyes didn’t meet mine. But I didn’t blame him. The bandages across my face were not the prettiest site.

The scrapes. I didn’t need any mirror to see how awful I looked.

An answer.

That’s what I needed.

But didn’t every human being need answers?

“Have a nice day,” I called to the man as he began walking down the street. His gaze still didn’t reach my face, but it had that smile-frown pasted on top of it.

But I wanted to know what she really hid inside that coat; a handgun to scare away strangers or rapists that may attack her? A pistol? Lucky charm she feared will probably be stolen?

“Well, I think I’m calling it a day,” my boss Marissa said as she hung up her apron. She walked off. She was in it for the money; that I knew, though we florists are not really worth a dime-a-dozen anyway.

Maybe she just never really like working with somebody who had bandages all over his face?

It’s kind of cruel…