The Flower

The Flower

The flower stand stood deserted; the vender huddled under a striped umbrella. The brilliant tulips, flashy roses, and effervescent carnations failed to lighten the gray sky and sodden streets. 

Lawrence hurried down the sidewalk as the gas lamps winked on, his briefcase banging against his knee. He’d come in late today and had to park at the old garage down near the newspaper’s previous headquarters. Now that they’d been swallowed by a conglomerate, the paper was headquartered in a shiny office tower. A beautiful but sterile facility staffed by the pale and frightened ghosts of the old paper. The news came off the wire; the writers had gone the way of the old building. Lawrence expected they’d soon find a way to syndicate the food column; maybe they would review only chain restaurants. One food critic in Anywhere USA could perform that task.

Lawrence’s steps slowed as he passed the flowers. An old gentleman, his hands swollen and gnarled with age, used to sell the most beautiful roses. Jake had loved roses -- a yellow rose on the table, a pink rose on his pillow, or a white rose in Grandmother’s vase. Lawrence blinked. He felt a dampness that was more than rain. The past was over; Jake wasn’t his any more, but he couldn’t stop himself from looking at the roses.

A bouquet of lavender roses, almost overpowered by the more vivid reds and pinks, drew Lawrence’s eye -- the color of falling in love. He wasn’t falling in love; it was a ridiculous color to desire. Not that he hadn’t dated, it just hadn’t worked out. Tom, Flash -- the name should have been warning enough, Simon, they were all nice men, but they weren’t right.

“Can I help you, sir?” 

Lawrence turned, startled. Blue eyes, curious and concerned, were watching him.

“Are they for someone special?” the flower vender asked.

“No, just looking.”

“Take them.” The man smiled. “They’ll go to waste in this rain. I'm sure you must have someone.”

“No, I don’t.” Lawrence’s fingers traced the delicate petals, but he didn’t pick them up.

“There’s a coffee shop around the corner. It’ll still be open, and I was closing anyway.”  The man smiled again, humor, compassion, and perhaps a glint of mischief shown in his eyes. “Grandfather doesn’t need to know.”

“Was he the man who had the flower stand? I used to buy from him often.”

“Well, now you can buy from me.”

“I have no one to buy for,” Lawrence said softly. Why was he talking to this absolute stranger? The rain soaked Lawrence’s collar, splashed on his expensive shoes, and sopped through his wool pants, but he couldn’t walk away. He touched a delicate petal, suppressing the urge to lean over and drink in the sweet scent.

“You can give them to me. I love lavender roses.”

Lawrence stared. The grin on the man’s face was now wide and teasing, endearing and challenging, the grin of a brat enchanted by his own mischief. “I’ll take you up on the coffee, and I’ll have the roses,” Lawrence said, reaching in his pocket for a twenty.