by Mia Asher
On my way back to the apartment, I stop outside a small, quaint flower shop with a blue front to admire the arrangements displayed in the window. Frowning, I take a step closer to the glass. Something about these flowers tugs at my heart. Maybe it’s the way the rose petals are drooping like tired shoulders, or the dust muting the clarity of some of the vases. They remind me of neglected toys, the kind that once upon a time brought great pleasure to a child, but then she grew up, and now they sit forgotten in the corner of an attic.
When I’m about to go inside, I see an older gentleman standing behind the glass counter cleaning its surface listlessly. Desolately. His shoulders, like the roses on the window, are stooped, and his white hair messy as though it hasn’t seen a comb in weeks. His eyes seem to be focused on his wrinkled hand and the worn-out cloth beneath it, but even from afar, I can tell his mind is somewhere else.
I open the door, hearing the bell announcing my presence. He looks up, his weathered gray eyes taking me in. I smile shyly, pressing my handbag closer to me. “Bonjour.”
The gentleman nods without bothering to smile back before returning his attention to the counter once more, wiping away an imaginary spot. Dismissed, I walk hesitantly around the outdated place, observing the different blooms. Roses in different colors. Orchids in jade green vases. Carnations. Daffodils. Freesias. There aren’t that many, and whatever is left seems to be dying along with the store. Sadness fills me from within as I steal a quick glance of the older man with the melancholic eyes. Store, man, and flowers alike seem to be wilting with time and the blues.
I return my attention to the flower in front of me. Extending a hand, I stroke the petals of a white orchid. “Hello, pretty thing.”
Ever since I can remember, flowers have always been a big part of who I am. When I was little, I would spend hours in the small patch of wild grass behind the trailer. Lying on the ground, hands behind my head, I’d pretend to be Alice in Wonderland. And like in the Disney film, the few wildflowers that surrounded me would come alive and talk to me and sing along with me. My aunt used to shake her head at me calling me a silly chit, but some nights, after a good day of tips at the diner, I would find one of our kitchen glasses sitting on my nightstand filled with whatever flower was on sale. I would take care of them, and in return, they filled our home with color and beauty.
The old man coughs behind me, reminding me that I’m not alone. Blushing, I reach for the orchid and make my way to the counter. What must he think of me?
“Magnifique,” I say, placing the flower on the table, proud of myself for not butchering the French language altogether. He wraps the orchid in cellophane and puts it in a brown paper bag as I reach for my wallet inside my bag, pulling out a credit card and handing it to him.
“Merci.” He takes it and rings me up.
As he’s swiping it in the machine, I inspect the rest of the store. The path to the back room is filled with discarded boxes. Dusty books pile up on the floor like tiny mountains, and the cheese and bread he had for lunch sit half eaten on a wooden table, a small fly buzzing around it. My gaze stops on a single frame hung on the wall behind the counter—the only thing that seems to be clear of dust in a place covered in it. Drawn to it, I study the aged black and white photograph of a young couple from afar. The handsome man in the picture is lazily reclining against the side of a car, his attention on the beautiful woman smiling for the camera. It’s a gorgeous shot, but what truly makes it breathtaking is the emotion in the man’s gaze. You can see his heart in his eyes, and his heart belongs to her. How he must have loved her.
There’s a pang in my soul as sorrow spreads through my blood. I once dreamed to be loved like that, and, for a while, I thought my dream had come true.
But it turns out dreams don’t last forever.
The gentleman finishes the transaction and hands me the receipt to sign. As I slide it back, my gaze lands on him standing directly underneath the picture and suddenly understanding dawns on me. I see it all too clear. The lack of warmth or a female touch. The dying flowers. The state of neglect in the store. But especially the man’s empty eyes, so different from the photograph.
The man has lost his heart.
The transaction finished, all that there is left for me to do is to grab the bag with the orchid and take my leave. Part of me wants to linger in the store, keeping the lonely man company, but he would probably think I’m a psycho hanging around while talking to flowers.
I let out a resigned sigh, thank him, and walk out the door. When I’ve taken no more than five steps, I stop and take one last look at the man in the shop. He’s gone back to polishing the same spot on the counter, his movements lifeless and colorless like his surroundings. I shake my head irritated at being so powerless. About to move, my eyes land on a handwritten ad Scotch-taped onto the window glass. I step closer to the window, take out my phone and type in the words in a translation app.
Recrute vendeur H/F
Oh, my God. This is it.
Energy jolts my senses like an electroshock. Acting on an impulse, I go back inside, tear the paper off the window and bring it with me to the counter. What are you doing, I hear a small voice inside me ask. He doesn’t want your help. Well, he’s stuck with it. You have no experience other than a few floral design classes. When was the last time you even had a job? You’re nothing but a pretty accessory. That makes me pause. The old doubts come back like an angry wave, threatening to drag me back in its undertow. But there’s another voice inside my head, growing louder and louder by the second. It tells me to keep walking, to not give up, to keep swimming.
You won’t drown, Valentina.
You are strong enough.
Surprise registers in the man’s expression when he sees me standing in front of him for the second time in a day. Butterflies wreck my stomach. I place the bag and ad on the counter. His gray eyes widen in astonishment as they land on the cream-colored sheet.
I reach for my bag and pull out my phone and a notepad. Opening the translation app, I type in:
Is the position still available?
Est ce que le poste est encore disponible?
I feel sheepish and a little silly, aware that the translation isn’t always exact, but for now, it will have to do. This French is better than no French at all. After writing it on the notepad, I slide it across the glass toward him. The gentleman cracks a tiny smile as he scans the words written on the sheet, and in that brief second, he’s the young man in the picture once again. A glimmer of hope lights me from the inside out because maybe I can help him after all. And the fact that I put that smile on his face fills me with a new sense of pride and joy—of purpose.
He raises his head and meets my eyes. And in that moment, it’s as though we both see and recognize something in one another. Pain, maybe? Two souls shouting for help?
Biting my lip nervously, I point at the notepad first. “Vendeur.” I point at myself then. “Me. Moi.”
He nods in understanding. Reaches for a pen and writes his response down. As I watch the blank ink marking the paper, I swear I can hear the beating of my heart. Feel it beating out of my chest. The realization that I need this like I need my next breath hits me in the head like a brick.
I reach for the notepad with trembling fingers. When I read the one sentence, there’s a burst of emotions in my chest—an explosion of bright colors—charging me with life.
Oui, le poste est toujours disponible. Vous êtes embauchée.
I look up the translation on my phone just to make sure that I’m not jumping to conclusions. The words begin to blur, and I realize that I’m crying tears of what? Joy? Exaltation? Yes and yes. Yes to everything.
I know it’s silly. All I would be doing is helping a man lost in a decaying store, but to me, it means so much more.
It’s something akin to freedom.
To independence.
I wipe my tears while laughing as the gentleman stares at me with a funny look on his face. On a whim, I lean over the counter and k
iss him on each cheek, getting another chuckle and smile out of him. “Thank you, thank you … I mean, merci. Merci.”
He must think I’m a whack job. He gives a girl a job, and she starts to cry then proceeds to kiss him? Yeah, total basket case if you ask me. But if he only knew what he’s doing for me—the precious gift he’s giving me—the opportunity to do something as Valentina.
To be Valentina.
I GOT A JOB.
Feeling high and happy, I want to break into a dance. I might be just helping a man at his decaying flower shop, but it means everything to me. I think of my life and what I’ve done since I married William. I finished college, and while my friends were applying for jobs, I was looking at a list of caterers for our wedding. Being William’s wife used to be enough for me, more than enough really, but it isn’t anymore.
After Mr. Lemaire and I manage to introduce ourselves with the help of hand gestures and the translator on my phone, we say goodbye. I’m supposed to start on Tuesday, four days from now, because he’s going to visit his daughter over the weekend. I think. Please, translator, don’t mess this up.
I’m walking into the building, my hands full of paper bags with groceries and the orchid, when I see Sébastien standing by the elevator, his attention arrested on his phone.
“Oh, it’s you again.” I stop momentarily as my heart skips a beat at the sight of him. My thirsty eyes drink him in as the memory of what I willed him to do to me while dreaming of him flashes in the recesses of my mind.
He looks up, our eyes meeting. “Nice to see you, too.”
I bite my lip, dismayed at my behavior. “I’m sorry. That was very rude of me.”
“No, you’re not.” He puts his phone away in the back pocket of his jeans. Shakes his head as a teasing smile tugs the corners of his mouth. “Admit it.”
Abashed, I laugh shakily. “I would never.”
“Well, I, for one, can’t complain.” His gaze on me is like a defibrillator to the heart. Blushing, I press the bags closer to my chest. We stand in uncomfortable silence. I wish I were anywhere else but here, standing next to a man who makes me feel as though I’m drowning and flying at the same time. But even that lie sounds empty to my ears. Because if I’m honest with myself, there’s no place I’d rather be.
He breaks the silence first when he moves toward me. “Here, let me help you with those.”
“No, thank you.” I sober up and take a step back, holding onto the bags as though they are the most precious cargo in the world. “I can carry them just fine.”
“I’m sure you can, Valentina. But I’d like to help you nonetheless.”
We remain standing there for what seems like a slow eternity. I can almost picture us. A woman unwilling to let go. A man offering help that she’s terrified to accept. We fight over bags filled with food, but somehow it feels like more than that. And I’m afraid he knows it, too.
Yet …
Yet my shoulders hurt, my arms hurt, my heart hurts. Would it be so terrible to let someone help me? To selfishly share my burden with him even if it is for a short while?
“Thank you,” I say, nodding once. “Please be careful with the orchid.”
“Sure.”
Slowly and gently as though he’s afraid I’ll change my mind halfway, he takes the bags away from me, and I let him. It’s nothing but politeness from his part yet it’s everything. And when our hands touch, I don’t remove mine right away. I keep them there, relishing the heat of his skin against mine. It’s a brief moment that couldn’t have lasted more than mere seconds. A simple touch between friends to the casual observer. Yet as we ride the elevator in silence, the ghost of his touch burning my skin, I sense an invisible bond forming between us that wasn’t there before.
“I see you managed to find a shirt.”
He grins. “Still thinking about it, eh?”
I laugh. “In your dreams, buddy.”
“If you only knew.” He winks, appearing like the perfect rogue he is.
A small smile on my lips, I want to say something else, but my mind draws a blank. Instead, I focus on the carpet beneath our feet. Its color and texture: green and furry.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks quietly.
I look up, meeting his blue, blue eyes. How easy it would be to drown, to be lost in them. “Nothing really.” You make me happy. “You?”
“Can’t tell you,” he says good-humoredly. “Sorry.”
“Hey—”
“Nope.”
“But—”
We hear a ping and the very inopportune elevator doors open on my floor. We get out forced to drop the subject. Sébastien walks me to the front of my apartment where I take both paper bags from him and balance them on my hip. I extend my arm to shake hands with him, but he doesn’t take my hand. Instead, I watch as he reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket, pulls out a small package wrapped in brown paper, and places it in my palm.
I frown. “What’s this?”
“A gift, Valentina.”
“You got me something?” I ask foolishly, unable to hide the pleasure bursting inside the cavities of my chest.
He nods, grinning. “It would appear so.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He buries his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and shrugs. “I wanted to.”
I stare at him, at the gift, touched beyond words by the gesture. “Thank you.”
He grins boyishly. “Don’t mention it.”
Without letting go of his gift, I put the groceries on the floor. “May I?” I ask when I’m free to open the package. Curiosity and excitement make my fingers tremble slightly. He nods, expectation shining in his eyes.
I try to slow down the process of tearing the paper away so I don’t appear too overeager in front of him. I take my time removing the ribbon and the tape even though I’m dying to find out what’s inside.
“Are you always this thorough when opening a gift?” he asks, laughter coating in his voice.
“No.” I chuckle. “But I’m trying really hard to behave with some kind of decorum fit for my age.”
“Here, let me do it. Or we’ll be here all day.”
“Hey!” I say with mock outrage, but I let him take the box anyway. And if his fingers come into contact with mine as he removes the present from my hands, I pretend I don’t notice.
He unwraps it in no time and gives it back to me, winking. “See, it wasn’t so hard.”
Smiling, I roll my eyes at him before focusing on the box once again. I open the lid and find inside a gorgeously carved wooden owl. “It’s beautiful,” I whisper. I trace the intricate and delicate design with my fingertips, its smooth grooves indenting my skin.
“You like it?”
“Yes,” I nod, swallowing past the knot in my throat as I find his gaze waiting for mine. “I like it very much.”
“Good.” He rubs the back of his neck. “It reminded me of you.”
“Thank you … I think.” I can’t help but smile. Being compared to a bird should hurt my vanity. However, the way he’s looking at me makes me feel as though I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.
“You know, I’d buy every owl in Paris to see you smile at me again like that,” he murmurs.
My cheeks on fire, I stare at Sébastien, trapped by him. Taking in his obscene beauty and, perhaps for the first time, seeing past it. It’s only human to be attracted to him, to take one look at him and wonder what if.
But there have been other attractive men before him who have flirted with me and not once have they ever come close to affecting me the way he does. It’s not love. It isn’t purely lust either. It’s him. He’s a balm, a soothing balm. Whenever he’s near me, I’m not so alone or sad anymore. He angers me, but then he says something that makes me want to laugh. He unnerves me, yet I can stand next to him in silence and discover the peaceful music in it.
He places his hand on the door next to my head and leans forward until our mouths are alm
ost touching. He smiles. But it isn’t the smooth, practiced smile from before. This time it feels unrehearsed. Natural. And it is more lethal than the purest poison ever created. “I think this is where I kiss you, ma petite chouette.”
“Petite chouette?”
“Little owl.” Slowly, he raises a hand to gently push my glasses back into place.
It would be so easy to move an inch, to close the space between us and finally feel his lips on mine again. Learn his taste. Savor his kisses. Find out whether he’s real or just a figment of my imagination. Lose myself in a brief, frenzied moment that offers me reprieve from reality. Wave a white flag in the losing battle that is Sébastien.
I do none of those things.
Instead, I laugh when I want to cry. “No. This is where I say thank you again and bid you a good night.”
Breaking his gaze, I unlock the apartment, grab the bags, and step inside. Before I close the door, I turn to steal one last glance of him. “Thank you very much for the lovely gift. Good night, Sébastien.”
“Wait. Before, in the elevator, you asked me what I was thinking.”
“Yes?”
“Not much gets to me, Valentina. Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact. But back there … a novel thing happened to me.” The corners of his mouth quirk in an amused smile.
My heartbeat accelerates. “What’s that?”
Eyes on me, he starts to walk backward toward the elevator. “I realized, maybe for the first time, what it feels like to want, to need something you cannot have.” Upon reaching it, he presses its button. The elevator opens almost immediately in front of him. He places a hand on one side of the door, stopping it from closing. “And, also, for the first time in what hasn’t been a short life, I find myself jealous of another man. It’s quite humbling, actually.” He laughs wryly. “And I don’t think I like it one bit.” He pauses. “Your husband is a very lucky man.”
He gets in the elevator, leaving me all alone and missing his warmth. I close the door behind me. Lean on it and press a hand to my chest, feeling the mad beating of my heart. I realize I’m still holding the owl in my hand. Feeling a rush of everything, I raise it, bringing it to my lips, and kiss it.
