Chapter Text
A small shop hidden behind a tall tree on a busy crossing in Melbourne was decorated in bright colours and handwritten signs. A plump ginger tabby cat stretched in the display window, nearly pushing a wreath to the floor. It was a calm day, so the owner and her only employee had some time to wipe down the counters and rearrange the bouquets. The blonde proprietor hummed along softly to the pop ballad on the radio as she carefully lifted two orchids to inspect them more closely, when suddenly a woman stormed through the door, nearly taking the small bell down to the floor in her force. Setting the delicate flowers back into their basin, the blonde turned towards the hurried customer. Smiling gently, she asked: “Good afternoon, how may I help you?” The woman pulled a crumpled twenty-dollar bill out of her pocket and slapped it onto the counter.
“How do you passive-aggressively say ‘fuck you’ in flower? ‘Cause if you can do that, that’d be fan-fucking-tastic.” The customer impatiently hopped from one foot onto the other, her brunette ponytail slowly coming undone. Her red flannel shirt was nearly slipping off of one shoulder, and her eyes were hidden beneath thick layers of black eyeshadow and eyeliner.
Bridget could swear she could sense Vera’s eyes bulging out of her head behind her. Grinning, she replied: “Alright, give me a moment.” She walked to the back of the store and picked a few orange and white flowers, before walking back to the front windows and adding violet blossoms to her arrangement. The brunette eyed the assortment curiously. Her eyes were a magnificent shade of green, much brighter than any flower Bridget could produce from her stockpile.
“That looks way too nice to mean ‘fuck you’.” A deep laugh that vibrated through Bridget’s chest escaped her, and she heard Vera mumble: “I’ll be in the back.”
“Oh, but looks can be deceiving, Miss,” the blonde replied. She pointed at the different types of flowers as she explained: “Here, I’ve got geraniums, which represent stupidity, foxglove for insincerity, meadowsweet which stands for uselessness, and orange lilies, for hatred.” Arranging the blossoms into a bouquet, she suddenly dropped them back onto the counter and grasped a flower from the vase that was decorating the register. “And this will complete it: this yellow carnation stands for ‘this has disappointed me’. Will that work?”
The customer smirked.
“It’s fantastic.”
“We could also deliver it for you, if that’s easier,” Bridget offered. It had become quite a large bouquet. That happened a lot; she managed to get carried away often while trying to create the perfect arrangement.
“Yeah? Sure, that sounds good. Saves me the trip, I guess.” Nodding, Bridget grabbed an order form and a pen and handed it to the brunette.
“If you could fill this out, we’ll have it delivered by seven if it’s in the city, or by tomorrow if it’s farther away,” she explained, smiling.
“Sure thing.” While the customer wrote down her personal details, Bridget finished completing the bouquet and called out towards the back of the small shop: “Vera? Don’t load the truck just yet; got another one for Fletch.”
“Okay,” her employee softly responded. The woman finished filling out the form and handed it back to Bridget. A loud clap of thunder outside followed, causing the cat who was still lounging between the window dressing to startle awake and scurry across the tiles, hiding between Bridget’s feet and the counter.
“Don’t worry, George, it’s just outside, sweetheart,” she comforted the cat, bending to pet his head. The brunette grunted, and Bridget eyed her curiously.
“I forgot to bring an umbrella today, and I have to walk back to the station,” she clarified. Bridget pointed to the umbrella stand by the door. A hand-painted sign indicated: Please, take me to keep you dry. Get a gift if you return me once the sun’s out again! Grinning, the customer did as the sign told her.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Bridget replied. And that was that; the brunette walked into the rain with the pastel green umbrella with Busy Bee Blossoms, Melbourne spelt out on the fabric and disappeared from her sight. Bridget gazed down at the form in her hands. Name: Franky Doyle . She forced the slight flutter of butterflies in her abdomen to calm down and walked out back towards Vera with the bouquet in her arms.
“I’ll deliver this one myself,” she announced, grabbing a travel box for the bouquet. She needed to see for herself why this Mike Pennisi deserved such a beautiful, fragrant insult.