The agent stood by the front of the store, looking out the glass but occasionally walking between the shelves, glancing mindlessly at her displays. The doctor had resigned himself towards the back of the store, sitting on the three legged stool Mireille had offered him as he flipped through the binder. The sound of plastic binder sheets hitting one another rung throughout the store.
She could hardly stand the awkward silence. She was much more used to the comfortable silence she had working on her own, especially as business was slow at this time of year. Or the busy noises that came with rush seasons or the chatter of the two young part-timers she had hired. This silence was uncomfortable, filled only by the sounds of pacing steps and flipping pages and a tension she couldn't quite describe.
The bell above the door rang, and Mireille has never been more thankful. As per usual, she flashed her enthusiastic smile with a "Hi, welcome in!"
An middle-aged woman, maybe in her early forties, entered the store, glancing around a bit as she took in her surroundings. The muted purples and blues of the hydrangeas on her long skirt clashed with the black fabric seemed to dance about as she shuffled towards the counter.
She seems to fit in with the store, Mireille thought to herself, dressed in floral prints.
She wandered around the shop, her soft footsteps tapping against the hardwood floors as she examined the displays. Stopping every few feet to mindlessly examine one of the colorful arrangements Mireille had carefully wrapped in cellophane or the groups of cut flowers arranged by category sitting in buckets along the walls.
The woman walked in circles around the shop, looking at displays she had already seen just a few minutes before, stopping every few feet to examine them closer.
Finally, the woman knelt down, gently picking up a cheerful arrangement of pinks and fuchsias, offset by the green of sage and phacelia. The sound of cellophane crinkling was introduced into the quiet scene as the woman brushed her fingers against the petals of the peonies and ranunculus. Slowly standing, the woman wandered towards the shelves by the counter, grabbing a simple cylindrical vase before stepping toward the counter.
"Just these, please," the woman said in a soft voice, the faintest hint of an accent interwoven.
"Of course," Mireille answered as she always did, smiling.
"And a card too, if you don't mind."
"It's absolutely no problem, ma'am. It'll just be an extra three dollars."
"That's fine."
Mireille typed in the price of the bouquet, then the vase, then the card before hitting enter.
"Your total comes out to forty-eight ninety-two, ma'am," she said, looking at the glowing green letters that appeared on the register.
The woman paid with her card before Mireille opened a small drawer that sat by her right hand, plucking a piece of heavy ivory cardstock from inside and handed it to the woman, also placing a black pen down in front of her. The woman blinked, staring at the pen and card in front of her for a second before slowly picking up the pen.
"I… I don't know what to say…" the woman mumbled, her voice shaking as her grey streaked head hung over the card. "What do I say?"
Mireille only smiled politely, as she always did, placing the bouquet in the cylindrical vase.
"They… they lost their daughter, but they gave mine a heart… they gave my daughter her life back," the woman said softly, her voice cracked. "Their daughter was so young like mine… What do I even say to that?"
She could never do much as she heard the sounds of millions of emotions swirling around in people's voices. After all, most of the time she was only in these people's lives for a brief second before disappearing. Still she couldn't help but feel the relief of the woman who stood before her, whose daughter was given a second chance at life, and a tightness in her chest for the couple who had lost their own.
Mireille held out her hand towards the woman, who slowly looked up in response, tears streaming down her pale face.
"Sometimes, all you can really say is 'thank you,'" Mireille said.
The woman's round eyes widened, her pupils like round pebbles before she broke down into tears. She reached to Mireille's hand, her warm fingers squeezing Mireille's cold palms tightly as she began to write on the little piece of ivory cardstock.
"Does that happen often?"
The young woman looked up from her checklist, glancing up at Spencer. She blinked for a second, seeming to be processing the question.
"What?" she said, turning around completely to face him, leaning back against the counter.
"People pouring out their stories to you, does that happen often?" Spencer asked once more, adding a few words to clarify what he had meant. After watching the scene that just unfolded before him, he was in mild disbelief at how the woman so easily told the florist her story.
She simply shrugged in return, pulling pin-straight black hair behind her ear.
"Pretty often. I mean, It's just a part of the job, as much as arranging flowers is."
Mireille looked over her shoulder at the flowers she had lay down beside the vase. Mindlessly, she picked up one of the yellow roses and examined it by the silk like petal.
"That's quite interesting," Spencer said, setting the heavy binder down on his lap. "I wonder why. Could it be because the act of giving flowers is so intimate?"
"I don't know." Folding her arms, she looked up towards the ceiling as if it would help her think. "This job is really interesting, you know. You get to meet all sorts of people and take a little odd glimpse into their lives. I've made arrangements for love, mourning, thanks, prayers and wishes. I've seen people think they can fit a whole novel in those little cards we give them."
She sighed, placing the rose back down on the counter, not drawing her eyes away from the pile. Giving a small shrug, she said, "Sometimes, I have to act therapist for a few minutes. But I don't mind."
Turning back around, picking up one of the yellow gerbera daisies she had initially laid aside, carefully looking where to place it within the arrangement.
"Though, in a way," she continued, not looking up from the arrangement this time. "Your work is pretty similar, huh. You get glimpses into the lives of people as you interview them, their memories and trauma."
"I suppose you're right," Spencer replied, not taking his eyes away from the cheerful arrangement on the counter, brimming with a variety of flowers all colored yellow only offset by the greens of long stems and their leaves scattered throughout. "Though I admit it's quite difficult to get criminals to confess to confess to anything. Maybe we should have you come in and talk to them."
She snorted, placing the daisy between a pair of roses before leaning back to admire the arrangement. "Funny," she muttered, moving one of the green stems slightly.
The bell above the door rang and Mireille looked towards the door, like clockwork reciting her overly-cheering, "Hi welcome in!" Spencer looked around her to see who had walked in and saw a man who appeared to be in his late forties. The hair he still had was long and greasy looking, reflecting under the fluorescent lights of the store. His baggy, wrinkled flannel and jeans contrasted the neat layout of the store as he began to shuffle around like he knew the place.
Mireille turned back towards Spencer, subtly trying to point towards the man.
"That's him," she whispered
Oh my god! I'm flattered and frankly quite surprised at the support you all have been giving my story! Thank you so much!
-L.D.