I'm like a victim
And all that you need is an alibi
The first time we meet she's wearing blue, a sundress of sorts that I happen to fancy. It compliments his eyes, which he flicks my direction before pointing out a rather higher up arrangement of roses.
"Those ones up there look perfect," he gives an apologetic face with his eyes, "may I see them closer?"
"Of course," I say, returning a compulsive smile before turning my back to the customers and huffing slightly.
I don't care for heights and I scold myself for ever thinking that having anything up that high was a good idea. Half-way up the ladder I recall why the organization is as such a turn to glance down at the man who is drawn in close to his girlfriend in whispers.
"Um, Sir?" He glances up, "Is it okay that this is more expensive then the flowers we have on the floor?"
I hate to ask that, because I often get that look. The one he's giving me now, like I'd just slapped him across the face and called him some awful name.
Cause nice names are hard to find in Midgar.
I can feel a breeze pass through one of the holes in my boot as I shift my weight on the ladder. Normally, I wouldn't ask, and I'd let the customer make some excuse that one of the flowers was too pale a shade of yellow, or bent, and I'd whisk it away to the back.
But this was up high, and call me selfish, but I really only cared to come up here once.
"It's okay," She says, finally turning her eyes to look at me, "we're from the Plate."
I know when I'm being lied to, but I get the flowers anyway, setting them before the couple as the man inspects the "too pale shade of " red and the bend of the closest rose. His hands are rough and callused and he seems to be exchanging a conversation between glances to the dark haired girl on his arm.
"We'll take them," she says, turning to me with a smile.
I guess I must look surprised because I get that look from the male again. I see his girlfriend pinch him from under the counter, but he doesn't falter.
"May I ask the occasion?" My hands reach into below cupboards to begin pulling out a box of complimenting cards and ribbon. "That way I can gift-wrap them free of charge."
I smile at the blonde.
"They're for a funeral."
I immediately feel my expression shift, a heaviness building in my chest. That was…unexpected. His eyes are cold on me, his face a stoic mask and quite the paradox to the snicker I see flash from my peripherals – his girlfriend – hiding it behind a drawn hand and a feigned cough.
"I'm…" I realize I'm staring at her, and snap back to attention," terribly sorry for your loss."
I have bad habits.
He shrugs in response to my apology before tapping the card beneath my felt tip marker. "Tifa, Tifa Lockhart," he says, "H-A-R-T."
There is the soft sound of my curvy writing under the category of "To:"; which I take a moment to think how I've never signed some flowers to the dead before. Usually cards aren't traditional to funerals, but funerals are a little too expensive for this area, so I don't see a lot of them.
I hover over the: "From:" part and glance up to the blonde, but his girlfriend responds, leaning on the counter and smirking.
Her eyes are red.
"ShinRa," she says.
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