Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
I lug out a pot of mums, one of my best sellers in the fall. Suddenly, I feel a pair of eyes on my ass.
Standing up straight, I put a hand on my hip. “Deon, how are you?” My eyes are here.
I mimic the smile of the dark-skinned Yankee’s fan, who owns the barbershop a few doors down. I find it easier to imitate life when others are around. Wearing a shattered heart on your sleeve incites questions like, Are you okay?
Not at all. My mom, my best friend in the friggen universe, died. I play the part, so others don’t have to struggle through uncomfortable emotions of remorse or sympathy.
“I’m good,” Deon replies, handing me a chai tea. “Checking in on you.”
“Well, I’m good,” I reply, offering a nod of appreciation.
“Hey, Deon.” Aliyah stops a few paces from the door since there’s no passing each other in the tight area. “You two making weekend plans?”
Cheeks burning, I turn away. Deon laughs it off. I know in this day and age, women are go-getters too. But shit, my momma taught me to let men make the first move. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. These days men aren’t as monogamous anyway. I give Deon an appraising glance.
Show me something.
Actually, don’t. My life is stagnant because I can’t move. Theoretically speaking, I should crave a warm body to thaw the numbness. But with all the tossing and turning I do at night, I’d ruin the unlucky guy’s sleep.
I clear my throat and gesture. “Aliyah, please, he’s just bringing me a drink.”
“Yeah.” Deon backs away, heading for his shop.
“Where’s my drink?” Aliyah’s head tilts.
“Girl, help me out here,” I snort, hefting the free-standing chalkboard where I’d already drawn pumpkins and succulents.
“Luxury, I need caffeine to survive,” Aliyah mumbles, assisting me with repositioning the stand. “Is that why you keep denying that sexy piece of chocolate? Men stop doing thoughtful shit the morning after?”
I laugh. “If Deon stopped dropping by with coffee after we had sex, then his ass wouldn’t be worth the trouble anyway.”
“Deon smells like a million bucks, swaggering in here every morning to give your unsatisfied ass a lil’ somethin’ something.’ Shit, better than these damn flowers.”
“Blasphemy!” I chuckle. “It's not a conspiracy. Yes, he smells great. However, he smiles at everyone, says hello too.”
“Hello, the drink!”
“Hello! I own this place. You work for me. Nevertheless, your ass hasn’t started working yet.”
“For real, Luxury?” Aliyah whines.
“Drag the yellow calla lilies outside. Let’s cheer up this gloomy day.” Moving our flowers will give enough walking room for the occasional shopper who wants to ponder their choices for their loved ones or significant others.
Significant other. It's been a couple forevers since I've felt loved like that, and I’ve never been the recipient of flowers. Maybe if I look back, love never loved me.
Just shy of five feet tall and freckled, I guess it’s why no one takes me seriously. At least, that's how I felt, still feel, after my longest relationship ended with my boyfriend from NYU, Arnold, proposing to another woman during our relationship. He said Tiffany was sophisticated and on his level. Apparently, I didn’t inherit enough of my father’s genius.
What I did get was my father’s icky spray of freckles and height. Momma was vertically challenged too. The rest of me is all Momma. She loved flowers. And no matter how much it hurts to have never gotten them, except from my parents, I love them too.
I lean against the glass display, which is stocked minimally with boutonnieres and corsages for Homecoming. Aliyah comes over with a sigh as a customer exits the store. Working at Urban Garden is like being a Marriage and Family Therapist or maybe a genie.
The rose-shaped clock near the door tells me it’s almost noon. I gather the black roses I always take my father every Monday and twine a silk ribbon around them.
“Wow, Luxury, you’re the world’s greatest daughter.”
“All I’ve got is Dad now.” I shrug.
Since my mother’s tragic murder, I splurge on an Uber, bringing my father flowers. I’m stepping out when my favorite regular starts up the stoop. Ninety-year-old Mr. Abel has the skin of freshly roasted almonds and a suit as big as his dentures.
“Hey, Mr. Abel. Your bouquet is waiting for you right inside.”
“Luxury, I was fast as lightning with this here cane.” He gestures.
“You sure were. But you know I got you, Mr. Able. The pink Gerbera daisies have your wife’s name all over them.”
I hurry back to grab them, tucking the black roses beneath my arm. Why didn’t Mr. Abel have children? Hell, I’m old enough for his grandson’s son.
I smile at the thought. Lux, be honest. If Mr. Able had a brother, you’d be game. With my pathetic existence, I don’t mind an older guy. Preferably one on the verge of going senile, so he’ll forget I suffer from night terrors. That way, he won’t escape come morning.