The potent floral fragrance surrounds me as I enter my flower shop, Urban Garden. I'm instantly relaxed, while dressed in a peach maxi dress, a leather jacket and leather booties. I put the keys to the florist shop in my red-and-green-polka dot apron pocket. The shop is so tiny, it’s more of a vendor stall in which we have to run inside to determine what we need if it's not already in flowerpots by the entryway. After opening the blinds, I start to lug out the first clay pot of yellow roses. I sense someone's eyes on my round ass.
“Hey, shorty–”
I know the voice. Standing up straight, I put a hand on my thick hip and say, “Deondre, I'm just about average female height.”
Deondre has on distressed jeans, a navy-blue polo, and there’s a New York Yankee’s cap slung low on his head. It’s difficult to see the sincerity in his eyes without peering hard enough. His skin is a rich brown, and everything about him has all the women on the block willing and waiting. He raises an eyebrow while handing me a chai tea.
“Thanks again, although I’ve said you don’t need a reason to say hello on your way to work.” I shake my head.
“Yeah, but your brain is always elsewhere. I needed something to get your focus.”
I offer a weak smile. Damn, I wish he would stop bringing me by coffees and teas and scones. Although I appreciate it, my heart is not in the mood for anything other than the biological function of sorting blood.
“Hey, if you want to give somebody a reason to come to work in the morning that would be me, my partner in crime,” Aliyah says stepping up to the door a few minutes late, as usual. She’s almost 6 feet tall, but lanky even in shape wear.
I ignore the two. I start putting the flowerpots of roses, lilies and begonias outside. After a few minutes of Deondre staring at my round derrière and making mmm, mmm, mmm sounds, he tips his coffee to us. Then he is off to his job at the sandwich vendor about two blocks down.
“Will you help me?” I ask Aliyah, as I'm hefting another clay pot with daisies. Setting down the pot, I quickly snatch my drink out of her hand before she can even take a sip. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. This is all mine.”
“Luxury, you know I need caffeine to survive. Is that why you keep denying that sexy piece of chocolate, just so he can unknowingly bring me coffee in the morning?” Aliyah gingerly attempts to take the drink from my hand, but I side step her. “Damn it, Lux, Deondre smells so gooood, coming in here every morning just to give your unsatisfied ass a lil’ somethin’-somethin’.”
“It's not a conspiracy. Yes, he smells great. And yes, I tell Deondre to stop bringing me coffees and teas all the time. And you're going to move these last two pots or no chai tea,” I promise, being more of a fruit smoothie person anyway.
“For real, Luxury?” Aliyah whines.
“Yes, drag it right outside,” I tell her. That will give enough walking room for the occasional shopper that is in search of a particular flower.
It has been a couple of forevers since I've been loved, though I’ve never gotten flowers. Maybe if I look back, in retrospect, love never loved me. The man I wanted to marry, Arnold, and I had attended to NYU together. He was working on his MBA. I was still doodling around in a creative writing major, when I brought him home. Dad gave his approval. With a solid education, all his teeth, and a heartbeat who wouldn’t approve their daughter’s first real boyfriend. First guy I ever brought home really.
Lost my virginity at the high school prom for the sake of doing it. My boyfriend at the time made me feel pretty though, so there are no regrets there. Still I know I’m some type of pretty, even with a spray of icky, little freckles on my cheeks, light brown skin and curly, unruly hair from my Black and Scottish heritage.
At one inch under five feet tall, I guess I'm not to be taken seriously. At least that's how I feel after my longest relationship ended with his marriage to another educated black woman from NYU. Shoulda, coulda, woulda taken after my father more, but didn’t get the phenom gene. Besides having the same icky freckled appearance, he's an engineer, inventor and a very loud person–only when comedy is involved. Other than that, Dad's as quiet as my tiny mom once was. But she loved flowers. And no matter how much it hurts to have never gotten them, besides from my parents, I love them, too.
“Good morning, Miss Lux.”
“Mr. Able...” My smile is as bright as the sunshine. It's around 10 a.m. when a black male customer comes inside. He has to be in his late seventies, with hair white as snow and dentures so big that his mouth always in a goofy grin. But once a month he comes to gather flowers for his wife. “The pink gerbera daisies are over here. The best selection from here to Delaware.” I direct him over to the flowers. They're so bright and beautiful and Mr. Able always said that the species made his wife smile like she once did when they were falling in love. Damn, maybe I love… love.
“Heyyy, Mr. Able.” Aliyah smiles, as she hands Pablo change for another dozen red roses. Pablo comes in often, and one day soon red roses will be gifted on more than just a first date. She chats with Pablo for a little while longer. We usually have puppy dog expressions on our faces, hoping for the best for him. Then Aliyah comes over to where Able is telling me about his wife’s latest greatness.
He could easily say that his wife just woke up and cooked breakfast today and make it seem like matters of the heart. This no taking love for granted for the Ables. As if everything she does means the world to him.
After a few hours into our shift, the morning crowd dies down. So, I lean against the glass display that houses boutonnieres and corsages. Aliyah comes over and we both sigh. Working at Urban Garden is like being a Marriage and Family Therapist. We’re often encouraging, giving advice, and telling stories of how certain flowers have certain romantic powers. Well, at least I think it's like being an MFT.
“What's going on with you, Aliyah? Is Tommy any closer to saying that dreaded three-letter word?” We stand there; both of us unloved, yet in the center of someone else's romance. Oddly, besides Mr. Able and a few local’s situations, we are often in the center of someone else’s life that we may never even know, when their lovers come and gather flowers. We don’t even get to delight in their counterparts’ expression upon receipt.
“Well, I cooked him a hot meal. Thanks for that brownie recipe. Next time he wants them with a little oomph.”
I arch an eyebrow, knowing exactly what she means. Potheads and I do not mix. Tommy pushes drugs and samples them, too. But I had told Aliyah when she first got with him, to be mindful. So, there’s nothing left for me to say on the subject.
For a while, I’m stuck in my thoughts wondering what life event Arnold and Tiffany have completed besides marriage. First house? First child? First dog or perhaps a cat? Tiffany is her name. She went to NYU with us. I hadn't even considered her a threat when they studied together. Chock it up to me being gullible. We were juniors at the time. Technically, I was a third-year freshman having yet to declare a major, when Arnold told me that his study-buddy had won his heart. But that was then.
The rose shaped clock near the door hints that it’s almost noon. So, I gather the black roses I take to my father's work every third Monday of the month and grab a silk gold ribbon to twine around them.
“Wow Luxury, you are the best daughter in the world,” Aliyah chimes in as I step out the front door.
I shrug with a smile and quickly hail a cab. This is the only part that eats at my pockets. But nothing is better than seeing the smile on my father’s face.