‘FLOWERS, TEA, COFFEE OR BOOKS?’ The words rolled off my tongue with a melodic sound. Gram was here, with a flamingo pink surrounding her—love, acceptance and calm.

‘Pink flowers, please,’ said a middle-aged woman in a coral coloured double layered dress. She was the colour of lavender—femininity and grace.

‘Of course. Would you like dark pink or light pink, and what type of flower?’

The quiet-natured woman shook her head. ‘My friend has been diagnosed with breast cancer ... what flowers do you recommend?’

‘I’m so sorry to hear. Let’s go over to Gram. She will create something beautiful for your friend.’

I stopped on Gram’s right side so she could hear me. ‘Gram—could you make a floral bouquet for someone who has been diagnosed with breast cancer, please.’

Gram looked at me. ‘Absolutely. Landi, what flowers would you use, if you were making the arrangement?’

I looked at Gram and raised my eyebrows, surprised by her question. She was in charge of the workbench of flower imagination and all designs today, now that she was feeling that a vertigo attack was not imminent.

‘Hmmm ... possibly pink roses, pink Matsumoto asters, white daisy poms, pink mini carnations, a couple of pink gerbera daisies, and ... myrtle. What do you think?’ I asked.

‘It sounds wonderful. Would you mind collecting the blooms and bringing them to me, please.’

‘Of course.’ I disappeared into the cold room and collected the said blooms and returned to Gram and placed them on the workbench for her, then returned to the sales desk.

I looked up from the sales book to see Charlotte floating in the front doors like a spring breeze. I expected to see butterflies following her. She was a perpetual colour of happy bright yellow.

I gave her a quick hug. ‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Thanks for taking over for a bit.’

‘Happy to help,’ she said.

I jumped on my bicycle and rode to the quaint little white house with the pretty flower garden that was my psychologist’s office, and sat in my regular chair. The one with the imprint of my butt on it. The door opened smoothly and silently. Dr Jones was dressed in a flowing floral dress today. Her shoes were red and textured. 

‘Yolande.’ Dr Jones’s voice was comforting, like the sound of rain on the roof at night.

I stood and followed her into the office. The familiar office. Dr Jones put a light hand on my shoulder. ‘Would you like to sit on the sofa or lie on the couch today?’

‘The sofa ... thanks.’ I made myself comfortable and hugged my usual cushion. Dr Jones went to make of pot of tea. I heard the boiling water and the chink of the china teacups and saucers. I closed my eyes and knitted my fingers together like I always did before I placed them on my stomach. I had chosen to be present today. I needed to talk to her.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, I opened my eyes. Dr Jones placed two teacups and saucers on the table. I reached over and picked up one. The warmth of the brew touched my lips when I sipped it and I relaxed a little. Aah ... tea. I was reminded of an English Proverb—a man without a moustache is like a cup of tea without sugar. Odd ...

‘What brings you here today, Andi?’

Our session had begun with the same question as usual. Predictable. Safe. ‘When I went to the ballet, for a second time, I felt a sensation I haven't experienced for a long time.’

‘What did you feel?’

‘It was like little sparkles and stars had travelled down my spine. I hadn’t felt it since before ... you know ... and it scared me.’

‘Was it a pleasant feeling for you?’

‘Yes.’

‘So why did it scare you?’

‘Because I felt happy.’

Dr Jones smiled at me. ‘That’s nice to hear. What is your definition of happy, Yolande?’

I hated when she asked me to analyse concepts. I took a deep breath and let it out before I spoke. ‘Not feeling sad.’ There. That should do it. I smiled inwardly at my devious answer. She wanted more information, but I didn’t want to give it to her.

Dr Jones raised an eyebrow at me. She knew I was playing games. ‘Why did it scare you?’

‘Because I don’t deserve to be happy, after ... you know...’

‘Yolande, this isn’t about Mia. You alone, are the one who can give yourself consent to be happy. It isn’t something someone gives you, or allows you, it’s all up to you. Don’t keep punishing yourself for something that was out of your control.’

‘But was it?’

‘You know it was. Be kind to yourself, and go and visit Mia.’

‘Do you really think it will help?’

‘Absolutely.’

There was a silence then. Of course I knew I had to go and visit Mia. But I just couldn’t bring myself to do it yet. I sipped on my tea. It allowed the pause in the conversation that I needed, and had a wondrous, calming effect.

‘Happiness is ever-growing and ever-changing, Yolande. It will take on several different meanings for us throughout our lives. Something that made you happy once, may not make you happy anymore.’

‘Is that why people always seem to be wanting to find happiness?’

‘Perhaps. They keep searching outside of themselves, for an external source. They need to understand that happiness comes from within, with your own permission. Happiness from material things is temporary. So those who try to find happiness through material objects will never find happiness.’

Dr Jones continued, ‘Happiness is a state of mind that can be created by us. Here’s an interesting fact. Our brains have trouble telling the difference between real events and imagined events, and our brains process imagined events like they’re real. So, if you imagine yourself as happy, you will feel happier.’

‘I have to work on the part where I give myself permission to be happy. That’s the part I’m having trouble with.’

‘That’s not uncommon. It’s okay to be happy after everything you’ve been through. You’re not at fault with what happened. You have the right to be happy ... I have some homework I want you to do—I want you to visualize yourself being happy, now and in the future. And I want you to visualize Mia smiling at you, being happy—that’s a big one, an important part of your homework.’

I nodded my head. I decided to try, if not today, within the next few days.

‘Is there anything else you’d like to talk about today?’

‘No. I think I’m done. Thanks.’

I walked out of her office holding my head a little higher.

I sat on my bicycle and started peddling. My bicycle made me happy. But I knew it was a material object, and I understood perfectly that there would come a time when it would not make me happy anymore. Like about now, when I had to cycle hard to ascend the road incline, and my legs would ache with the lactic acid build up. That’s when I wished for a car. A car to make me happy.

But I didn’t want a car. I wanted Mia, my best friend. 

*~*~*~*~*

I rushed into Flowers for Fleur, so Charlotte could leave. I had only been gone for an hour. She kissed my cheek then left. I sent all the fancy flower bouquet requests over to Gram while I concentrated on the selling the pre-made blooms and restocking the store with fresh flowers and ornamental gifts.

Gram left at 2.30pm to get some much-needed rest, as we had planned. At 5pm the store closed, and I started carrying the flowers in from outside to place in the cold room, then moved other ornamental decorations inside.

The absolute final front of the store job, as prescribed by Gram, was to bring her bicycle in to her office for the night. The moment I stepped onto the pavement there was a citrusy scent with a hint of liquorice, vanilla and lavender. I hesitated in my stride and looked to my right. Xander stood beside Gram’s bicycle and had begun to push it toward the doors of the store.

‘You’re early,’ I said. ‘I was expecting you at six.’

‘I know. I was hoping we could get started a little earlier.’ He lifted Gram’s bike up the steps like it was a featherweight. I followed him as he pushed it through the store. He was the colour of cerulean blue, glowing, like in the northern lights on rare occasions.

Heat rushed to my cheeks and I took a moment to collect myself. ‘It goes in her office, to the right ... thanks,’ I finally said, then left him while I went back to finish the closing jobs so the store would be ready to go in the morning. I opened the accounting book and updated it, then found the on-line flower orders for tomorrow, printed them and placed them into the order book.

At the workbench, I tidied and wiped down the work space, looking over to the cafe when I heard male voices. Xander was talking to Darcy over the steam of his drink.

I went into Gram’s office and grabbed my backpack, then walked toward the boys. They stopped talking and looked at me. I didn’t know who to look at first. I chose Darcy, only because I had known him longer.

‘See you tomorrow, Darcy!’ I said, then looked at Xander. ‘I’m ready to go.’

‘See you, Andi,’ Darcy said, raising his eyebrows. He gave me a small smile.

I turned and walked toward the front doors of Flowers for Fleur. I heard Xander’s quick footsteps as he caught up to me. He reached forward and pushed the door open then followed me out. I turned and frowned at him.

‘What?’ he said.

‘I can push the door open myself.’ I lifted the key to double lock the store doors.

‘I know ... I have old-fashioned manners.’

‘Thank you, then,’ I said, thinking that is what an old-fashioned woman would have said.

He led me to his car and opened the door for me, and closed it once I had sat in the passenger seat.

‘I have arms,’ I said when he sat in the driver’s seat.

‘I’ve noticed that,’ he said.

‘I can open doors myself,’ I said.

‘And climb in windows,’ he added, ‘arms are good for that!’ He looked at me and gave me a lopsided grin.

I smiled and averted my gaze as that curious heatwave passed through my body. I didn’t want him opening doors for me. I saw it as a power game, one that said men were dominant.

Xander pulled up outside the community hall. ‘Stay,’ he said.

‘Like a dog? Is that a challenge?’

He tilted his head to the side and closed his eyes, then opened them and gazed into mine. ‘Please.’

‘Perhaps. You never know, maybe I can follow orders...’

Xander laughed.

‘What?’

‘Can’t you see the irony—you work for the defence force where you have to follow orders.’

I looked around outside. ‘It doesn’t look like the defence force right now, so those rules don’t apply.’

‘Conceded.’ Xander exited the car and walked around to my door and opened it for me. I got out and shook my head at him, then waved my hands about. Xander raised an eyebrow at me and closed the door.

I waited for him at the entrance of the hall while he collected his gear for dance practice. He unlocked the doors and we walked in.

‘I think it’s quicker for me to ride here,’ I said, waiting for him to bite.

‘You’ll thank me after a couple of hours,’ he said while he set up the sound system.

I sat on the pew and changed my footwear, checking out my hobbit feet. ‘Did you have a good conversation with Darcy?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Just wondering ...’

Xander sat beside me. ‘Wonder no more.’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay? No more girly digging questions?’

‘No.’ I stood and went to my spot to warm up and stretch.

Xander followed me to my space and mirrored my warm ups and stretches, plus he added a few more.

He cleared his throat and I looked up at him. ‘Darcy told me he would come after me if I hurt you.’

I stilled and frowned at Xander. ‘Are you scared?’

‘No. I’m not going to hurt you, and I can look after myself. That’s another thing being a danseur has taught me.’

I nodded at him, thinking of all the bullying Xander would have copped over the years for his ballet gift. ‘That’s why danseurs are the best.’

Xander narrowed his eyes at me. ‘Is that a compliment, Yolande?’

‘Maybe, maybe not. I didn’t elaborate on what they are the best at ...’ I walked to the centre of the hall ready to start polishing our waltz.

Xander followed me and stopped close. He held up his hand for mine and placed his other hand just below my shoulder blade, while I put my hand upon his broad shoulder, and the music began ...

After an hour and a half, we took a break. I sat on the floor and drank deeply from my water bottle.

‘Have you bought your dancing gowns?’

‘Yes. For the waltz I’m wearing a white gown with a waterfall of coloured flowers, and for the foxtrot my outfit is white with a rose vine creeping over the shoulder ... the flowers are for Gram. Is that all you need to know?’

‘Yes.’ Xander stood and proffered his hands.

I waved my hands in front of him. I could get up by myself. I didn’t need his help.

His face fell. I rolled my eyes and sighed, then placed my hands into his. He pulled me to my feet and gave a little bow. I curtsied to him.

Once again, we took the waltz position and the music started. We had our dance perfected, with head movements and fancy feet movements, but we continued for another thirty minutes, to solidify our performance.

A flash of lightning brightened the hall, followed by the rumble of thunder, startling me. 

‘It’s a good thing you didn’t ride your bicycle,’ Xander said in a smug voice as we continued to dance.

‘It’s a good thing you gave me a lift,’ I said, noting to check the weather each day from tomorrow.

‘You’re welcome.’

‘I didn’t thank you.’

‘You will,’ he said, and twirled me around. We connected again and continued the waltz step until the hall plunged into darkness. We stopped dancing. Anxiety spiked through me. I needed my work safety boots. Now.

‘I’ll get my phone. It’ll give us some light,’ Xander said as held on to my hand. A flash of lightning lit the hall for a fraction of time. I tagged along behind Xander, hoping not to trip over anything.

When he stopped walking I felt around for the pew and sat on it.

Xander located his phone and turned it on. ‘There’s a severe storm warning telling people to seek shelter immediately. We’ll stay put.’

The sizzle of lightning sounded, followed by instant thunder and a vibrating of the foundations of the hall. I slid off the pew onto the floor and crawled towards the centre of the room to get away from the windows, and lay on my back.

Xander was beside me at once.

‘I love storms,’ I said.

‘Me too.’

There was silence. A comfortable silence. And I felt safe, even without my safety work boots.

‘Tell me the story about your gram’s bicycle and the basket of flowers ...’

I smiled in the darkness. ‘Gramps brought her the bicycle to get around while he was out of town, singing opera. He delivered it with a love note in the flowers he had put in the basket. It was quite a statement in the 1950s. Gram was the first woman in Tarrin to have a bicycle.’ I smiled again. ‘I can just imagine a young Gram riding along in her old-fashioned dress. She was a brave velocipedestrienne.’

‘A what?’

‘A velocipedestrienne ... bicycles were known as a velocipede, and women who rode them were known as “velocipedestriennes”.’

‘Of course you would know that!’

‘Is that an insult?’

‘No. I like your nerdiness. Go on ...’

I rolled onto my stomach and leaned on my elbows. ‘Did you know some men believed that if women went around straddling bicycle seats they would start having orgasms from the shocks and vibrations of the road?’ I giggled.

‘Hmmm ... intriguing ... so do you?’

‘Do I what?’

‘Have an orgasm while straddling the seat of your bicycle?’

‘A young lady would never reveal such personal information!’ I said in a dramatic voice.

‘It depends on the young lady...’

‘True ... anyway, Gram and Gramps had the most beautiful flower garden in all of Tarrin, and for miles around. After numerous requests for bouquets of her flowers, she started selling them, and that lead to the opening of Flowers for Fleur. Gram would ride her bicycle to work every day. She would leave her bicycle out the front of the shop with flowers in the basket. It became a well-known icon on the street.’

‘And it’s still there to this very day,’ Xander added.

‘Yes. But Gram stopped riding it to work about seven years ago.’ I stilled. Her vertigo. She said it started about seven years ago ... so that’s why she stopped riding her bike!

I rolled onto my back again and listened to the heavy rain and rumbling thunder.

Xander’s deep voice was gentle. ‘It’s about respect you know, and caring, and tenderness, and manliness, and romance. It says that you’re important, and worthy.’

‘What are you talking about, Mr Parker?’

‘Opening doors for women, Miss Lawrence-Harrison. It means you’re highly thought of.’

‘I disagree, Parker. I think men tend to open doors for women who are pretty.’

‘I disagree, Harrison. I would open a door for any woman, no matter what she looked like.’

‘Somehow, Alexander, I don’t think you are like the majority of men.’

‘Is that a good thing?’

‘It means you’re too nice. Sometimes, a man opening a door for you is their initial form of flirting, like a pick-up line.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes ... I think you have been smelling too many ballet shoes. You need to get out amongst the commoners more often and listen and watch what goes on.’

‘What if an older man opens a door for you, do you accept it?’

‘I do—depending on my intuition.’ And the colours I see ...

‘And your intuition tells you ...’

‘Whether a man is dangerous or not, whether his intentions are pure.’

‘What does your intuition tell you about me?’

‘My gut reaction about you when we first met, or now that I know you a little more?’

‘Both.’

‘Are you sure you want to hear it?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Nah—I’ll keep that information to myself.’ I pointed my toes like I once did in ballet. I had forgotten how good it felt.

‘Tell me about when you began dancing,’ I said.

‘I started when I was six, with my sisters. My father thought it was cute at first, expecting me to quit soon after. By the time I was ten, he was taking me to football games and enrolled me in a football team, again hoping I would quit the “girly” dancing. But I didn’t, and here I am.’

‘And he still doesn’t know you dance?’

‘No. When you really want something, you get good at going about it, so it goes unnoticed. My mother has been an instrument to my success, supporting me all the way, and shutting my father down when he suspected something.’

‘How do you feel about your father rejecting something you love and have excelled at?’ Now I was sounding like Dr Jones ...

‘I used to beat myself up about it. But not anymore. I used to get jealous of the other guys whose fathers were proud of them, and would come to watch them dance. But not anymore. He has his life to live, and I have mine.’

‘I’m sorry it’s been like that.’

‘It’s okay. His rejection made me stronger, and it made me stop seeking his approval.’

‘But it still hurts ...’

He was silent for a moment. ‘That, it does.’

‘Let’s dance by the light of the storm, Xander ... I’ve never done that before,’ I said.

He turned his head toward me. I could see the whites of his eyes. ‘Me neither ... another first with Yolande Lawrence-Harrison.’

‘Another?’

‘The fourth in fact.’

‘The fourth?’ I couldn’t for the life of me think of what four things could be a first for this famous dancer beside me.

‘Taking a girl to a party, buying flowers, ballroom dancing, and now this ...’

‘Gosh, Alexander Parker, you really are living on the dangerous side ... you’d better be careful, or you’ll be making distance-breaking paper planes next.’

He smiled, then stood. When lightning lit up the hall, I could see his proffered hands. I could see his proffered hands. This time I didn’t wave my hands around in protest, I just placed my hands into his and enjoyed the moment. I was starting to like this fleeting happiness feeling.

‘Can you hear our music in your mind?’ His voice was gentle.

‘Once Upon a Dream—yes,’ I whispered.

‘Yolande, will you dance with me?’

I took a deep breath, unsure of what I was feeling, and breathed out the heat that seared through my body. ‘Yes.’