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You loved to imagine the stories behind the people you sold your flowers to. The old man with a kind face and the sweet demeanor who bought a bouquet of delicate pink carnations could be going home to surprise his wife of forty years. The fresh-faced, gangly teenager who purchased a small bundle of roses was maybe asking out his crush for the first time. You also had an inkling whenever someone was looking for an apology bouquet: they would usually come in with an anxious or penitent expression, looking to buy a large bouquet of lilies (definitely an apology crowd favorite) or roses (usually pink or white ones).
And then there was your Thursday gentleman. You rarely had regular customers that were not businesses or religious establishments. You still remember his first visit and his first bouquet three months ago. He had come in, tall, blonde and serious, in a grey dress shirt that highlighted the blues of his eyes and tailored pants, a matching coat tucked in one arm, and just the most stately and commanding demeanor you’ve ever observed. You wondered if maybe he was an executive in a large company, or maybe a lawyer coming from a hearing. You had greeted him with your usual warm smile and he had responded with one of his own that softened his masculine features into something that took your breath away. He had looked around your shop for a few minutes before deciding on one of the bouquets you had just thrown together: a lush bundle of asters, dahlias, and carnations of various coloring. Ah, you had thought, this wasn’t for a new lover. This wasn’t a bouquet you would buy for your mother either. Maybe for his wife? You had glanced down at his hands and found no rings. Or maybe a long-term girlfriend?
Whoever this bouquet was for, you decided as the handsome man gave you one last polite smile before turning to leave with his bouquet in hand, they were lucky to have such a thoughtful partner. Maybe it was their anniversary. Or maybe he was proposing.
You weren’t able to spare him another thought after that first visit. It had been the week leading up to Easter, and you were preoccupied with preparations for Easter orders and finalizing your inventory for Mother’s Day. The following Thursday, however, a familiar, tall blonde head appeared in your periphery, greeted by one of your staff. The man was there again, still handsome and still naturally commanding the room with his presence. You put down your shears and greeted the man with a smile. His blue eyes met yours and it had felt like your vision tunneled: there was no one and nothing else but him and your flowers.
He had again perused your display, with your staff pointing out the best blossoms to him. They had also asked him what the occasion was and your ears perked up. The man replied nonchalantly that there was no occasion.
Disappointed with his answer, you forced yourself to focus on the arrangement you were working on, carefully winding the wrapping paper around the blooms: a dreamy combination of baby blue and pink roses, pink hydrangeas, sweet peas, and delphinium flowers. The scent of sandalwood, patchouli and, if your nose was right, jasmine suddenly alerted you to his presence, looking up to find the blue-eyed blonde studying you curiously. You blinked up at him then smiled, “Anything strike your fancy?”
He had chuckled at that, his eyes crinkling in the most charming way, and you felt your pulse quicken. He tilted his head and studied your face for a moment before shifting his gaze towards the arrangement you were working on, “If that one isn’t taken, I’d love to take that home.”
There was nothing flirtatious about his tone. His expression remained polite and friendly. Nothing seemed amiss, but you felt your cheeks warm. You nodded and looked up at him again, the gentleman easily towering over you, “Sure. Let me just finish this up and ready it for you. Would you like me to prepare a card?”
His lips quirked up, in a manner that was almost playful, and he shook his head, “No, it’s alright. Thank you.” His voice, you were alarmed to note, made your insides feel molten.
You watched him leave with another of your bouquets, and your staff sighed beside you, “He’s so dreamy. His girlfriend must be one happy lady.”
And you would both come to find that his partner, whoever they may be, truly must be the luckiest person alive; at least, luckiest in terms of a partner who spared no expense in surprising them with flowers. The handsome blonde returned every Thursday thereafter; each time, he would look around the flower shop for a while, but would eventually settle on one of the special bouquets you had thrown together for the day.
Noticing this pattern, you began to make sure to craft the best arrangements you could every Thursday. And no matter the cost, no matter the flowers used, the man would purchase your custom bouquets. You felt both proud that he seemed to enjoy your work, and also a little sad that he seemed to be either utterly devoted to their partner or, if the other theory your staff had come up with had any merit, he was seeing a new woman every week and did not like the idea of just giving roses. He definitely did not seem like the type of man who’d just default to roses to woo somebody. Something about the intelligence and perceptiveness in those blue eyes told you that this was a man who thought everything through twice, if not thrice.
Another thing you had started to do every Thursday that you refused to acknowledge and your staff, thankfully, also has not commented on was that you made sure to put a bit more of an effort into your appearance on that day of the week. If the gentleman had noticed, however subtle you tried to keep it (an extra minute to perfect your eyeliner that day, a new shade of lipstick, a sweet summer dress underneath your apron), his attitude towards you remained unchanged. He was always cordial and polite. His eyes always seemed to be full of curiosity and interest, but you figured that was likely just his nature. You never learned his name, and he never asked for yours.
It was Thursday today and, as always, you were carefully putting together another bouquet. Your peonies were looking especially gorgeous that day, so you decided to use them as the star of your arrangement. You hummed along to the music playing from your store’s speakers. It was still pretty early; he usually came in at a bit past 5PM, and it was only half past four.
The bell on your door chimed as it swung open, and you looked up to greet your new customer. A man with dark chestnut colored hair walked in, attractive in that classic tall, dark and handsome way. He spotted you and walked over, his forest green eyes trained on you as you stood beside your work table, hands full with trimmed stems and blooms. You set down your work and pulled off your gloves, smiling at him, “Good afternoon! What are we looking for today?”
The man smiled and you recognized the glint in his eyes as attraction. You discreetly checked his hands: no ring. You hoped he wasn’t here for a bouquet for his partner. You maintained your pleasant expression as he openly assessed you before finally answering your question, “It’s my mom’s birthday. I was hoping to get her some nice flowers. What would you suggest?”
You tilted your head thoughtfully, “Do you know what she likes?”
He shook his head, “My dad was always pretty generic when it came to buying her flowers. Just regular old roses. I want to give her something different.”
You hummed thoughtfully, “What’s your mom like?”
“I think something yellow would suit her,” he cocked his head, eyes scanning your display, “She’s a very warm, kindhearted woman. Very sunny disposition.”
“How about a bouquet of gerberas and sunflowers?” you suggested, gesturing towards the cheery flowers, “They’re at their best this season, and they signify warmth, cheeriness and longevity.”
The man nodded his head, grinning, “Let’s do it.”
You two chatted amicably as you put together the bouquet for his mom. As you started to wind some twine around the bundle to secure it, the door chimed and you looked up to see your Thursday regular come in. His stately eyebrows rose slightly when he saw the other man, who was still standing across from you on your table, watching you as you worked. You smiled at the blonde, “Good afternoon! I’ll be with you shortly.”
You finished securing the bouquet and you handed it to the dark-haired man, who gave you his card to ring up the order. His eyes twinkled as he gave you another charming smile, “You’ve been immensely helpful. Thank you.”
You handed him back the card after processing his payment, “I hope your mom likes them!”
“She’ll love them, for sure,” he reassured you, his fingers grazing the inside of your wrist before drawing his hand away, “They’re as beautiful as the woman who put them together.”
You felt your face warm and you drew your hand back as well, unsure of how to respond. The man gave you one last smile, as if finding your bashfulness fascinating, before making his way out of your shop, nearly colliding with the taller blonde man. The two apologized to each other, but you noticed those blue eyes seemed to be trained on you, and you wondered vaguely if maybe you had gotten some dirt or sap on your face. Maybe that was why the dark-haired man had also seemed so amused. Feeling your face warm further, you waved your hand towards your display, addressing the blonde, “Please, go ahead and browse. I’ll be right back.”
You ducked into your small back office and checked your reflection, finding nothing amiss. Relieved, you walked back out, heading back to your work table, where you had left your still unfinished arrangement. Your blonde patron stood in front of your display of blooms, eyeing them with a pensive expression. You stole a moment to study him, finding him in a rare moment of being completely absorbed in your flowers or his own thoughts — you couldn’t really tell. He really was quite an imposing figure: towering more than a couple of inches over you, broad-shouldered, and with features so defined and handsome, you doubted you could ever really look at him without feeling breathless. As always, he was well-dressed: donning tailored pants and a deep green dress shirt that had a few buttons undone, revealing a smattering of fine blonde hair over the small exposed vee of his chest. His sleeves were also rolled up, showing off his strong forearms that were covered with a dusting of the same pale blonde hair. From his proud brow bone, to his aquiline nose, to his ocean blue eyes, he was both angel and sin. Your flowers were beautiful, but he was moreso.
You swallowed back a sigh and looked away, tracing the petals of your peonies, delicate and beautiful, but not quite fully blossomed. You never did find out who his Thursday flowers were for.
“Do you know a lot about the meanings of flowers?”
You looked up, startled, and found him standing across from you. You nodded, gazing up at him curiously, “I know enough. I also have a book on them in my office, if there are flowers I can’t quite recall the meanings of. People sometimes like to get flowers with symbolisms and messages behind them. Is there a particular message you’d like to convey today?”
You felt your pulse quicken as you asked the question. He had never really initiated a conversation before. He always just came in, chose one of your premade custom bouquets, and left. There really wasn’t much you knew about him other than he was handsome, seemed to appreciate your floral arrangements, and that he made a purchase every Thursday. Not once had he given hints as to who or what they were for. He never called to preorder anything and always paid in cash, so you also did not know his name.
He seemed to hesitate, lowering his gaze as if considering his words, before he finally met your eyes again, “Are there flowers that convey having a secret admiration?”
You nearly dropped the stems you were holding, mouth parting in surprise as you were taken aback by his question. His eyes, ever perceptive, seemed to grow amused at your reaction, and you felt your face warm for the second time that day. Growing embarrassed that he may have (correctly) assumed that it crossed your mind that he was talking about you, you felt your blush deepen and you averted your gaze, “Gardenias symbolize a secret adoration or a secret love between two people. Would you like me to prepare a bouquet of them for you?”
He smiled, “Would you have hyacinths as well? Would they pair well with gardenias?”
Hyacinths. Your loveliness charms me .
Whoever this particular bouquet was for, it seemed he was quite keen on them, if he knew what hyacinths symbolized. He had never verbalized a choice of flowers before; he had always just chosen one of your premade bouquets. He also never seemed to favor one flower over the other; you had used all sorts of flowers for your custom arrangements (you would usually just choose whatever looked loveliest among your stock, and whatever struck your fancy at the time you were working on them).
You nodded, already imagining how you would put the two together, “I can definitely make it work. Any other flowers you’d like to add?”
“Lavender roses.”
Love at first sight or enchantment.
“Let me go prepare your bouquet for you,” you said, ringing up his order and accepting his payment. You kept your voice light and bright as you turned toward your flower coolers to retrieve the blossoms, “You seem to have an interest in floral symbolism as well.”
“A definite interest,” he agreed from behind you. You nodded towards the stool in front of your work table, “Please take a seat. This won’t take very long.”
“Take as long as you need.”
You tried to focus on arranging the bouquet, seeking calm in the familiar motions, willing your face to cool and your heart to slow down. The man sat across from you, watching as you put together his request.
“They must be very fond of flowers,” you ventured to say. You tried not to look directly at him, like to gaze upon him could scald you. He was too handsome and too golden. And this was all so unusual that you felt suddenly out of your element. He had never lingered this long before, had never really bothered to strike a conversation. He always seemed to move with purpose, and did not dally if he didn’t have to. Now that he was here, as if taking respite in the four, fragrant walls of your flower shop, you didn’t know what to do with him. But it was either you suffer his observations in silence, or you pretend to be unbothered by talking to him.
“They?”
You looked up at him for a moment to see if his expression gave anything away. His chiseled face remained placid, though his cerulean eyes shone with curiosity and what seemed to be a bit of amusement. You had nothing to lose. Except maybe a regular customer? But he didn’t seem like the type to take offense easily. You dropped your gaze back to the flower stems you were trimming, tamping down your embarrassment, “The person you’ve been giving your flowers to?”
He shifted, resting his elbows on an empty space on your work table. You kept your eyes trained on your task, willing yourself not to appear flustered. His voice was like velvet, his tone deep and smooth, when he finally answered, “I’ve come to develop quite an appreciation for them.”
He didn’t give you time to process his statement as he reached over to brush his fingers against the petals of the gardenias you had set down on the table, “The flowers were for me.” You followed the path of his fingers, long but callused, with nails neatly trimmed, “As were my weekly visits.”
You set aside the hyacinths you had just finished prepping, picking up the purple roses, finding yourself unsure of how to respond to what he had just said. What did he mean by the weekly visits being for him?
He suddenly said your name, as though testing its weight on his tongue, then, as if finding he liked how it sounded, said it once more, prompting you to look up to find his cerulean eyes watching you closely. You shouldn’t be surprised that he knew your name. You were sure he would have heard your staff calling you any number of times in the past. But this was also the first time he had addressed you by it, and he said it like every syllable was deliberately considered, like your name was a poem to be lovingly pronounced.
“I’m at a disadvantage,” you finally said, turning back to your arrangement, “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“Erwin,” he again smiled, “Erwin Smith.”
“Erwin,” you repeated, testing his name in your mouth, as he had yours, “Have you always been fond of flowers?”
“Not always,” he admitted, “But I’ve developed quite an interest in them over the past months. I even started reading more about the language of flowers quite recently.”
“Any particular reason why?” you asked, reaching for the roll of jute twine you kept stored beneath your table and securing your arrangement with it carefully.
He chuckled, the sound causing something inside you to twist and turn, “There is a particular reason why.”
Finished with his bouquet, you handed it over to him, smiling, “I hope this brightens up your home, Erwin.”
He took the bouquet from you, pausing as if to admire what you’ve created. You had never crafted an arrangement with those three particular flowers before, and they played off each other beautifully. You felt proud of how lovely the bouquet had turned out. You wondered where he would place them.
“Gardenias, hyacinths, and lavender roses,” he listed off, turning the bouquet in his hands, his blue eyes sparkling, “This is beautiful, perfect. Thank you.”
You clasped your hands in front of you, feeling immensely pleased by his praise of your work, lowering your eyes to hide how much his words affected you. Then, to your surprise, he again said your name in a tone so low and tender, it felt even more intimate than a kiss. You looked up to find him beside you, having rounded your work table to find his place by your side, “Will you have dinner with me?”
He held the bouquet you had just handed him toward you, ocean eyes solemn but hopeful. Gardenias, hyacinths, and lavender roses. You always loved to dream about the intent and the people behind the flowers you sold, but you rarely did get to find out what the actual stories were. You never got to witness how each bouquet was received, what each arrangement resulted to.
Your Thursday gentleman stood before you, even more beautiful than the flowers around you, and you found yourself smiling, your much smaller hands folding over his as you accepted the bouquet you had created together.
“Erwin, I would love to.”