Flowers in November
By Shoshana

Flowers in November. Where do they come from? The flowers in the window of the shop on the corner, the corner of the street his bank is on, the bank he has just deposited his money in. What Latin American enclave grows roses in November? All of them, he muses, all but the most barren and desert-like would be supplying the Northern hemisphere with this riot of color, screaming from the picture window of the little floral shop, no wider than ten feet, no more than a little closet-like space along the avenue.

He continues to stare at the abundant blooms, his eyes grazing every hue and tint imaginable. Even on this autumn day, on the Eastern Seaboard, one can still find blossoms with all the radiance of summer. He ceases to gaze and walks slowly, almost passes by the entrance to the compact establishment. He steps back, pushes in on the metal door handle, and breathes in the assault of fragrant flowers.

The foul air from without is banished here. It almost overwhelms him, causes him to flee from its heady aroma. He feels dizzy, strangely affected by the scents, strangely unable to move, posing like a statue just inside the store. Why am I here, he wonders to himself; and then he hears the shopgirl's lilting voice and he comes back to the real world.

He has to buy some flowers, has to buy flowers for her, she who was scented just like these flowers, who came in this morning with new perfume, a new pair of shoes, a new shade of lipstick. He noticed all that. He didn't dare stare at her for more than a few seconds before he returned his eyes to his work. But what he couldn't see, he could smell. And she had worn fragrant flowers into the office that morning.
   
He'd spent the entire morning sneaking glances at her and wallowing in her presence. The few times she'd caught him gazing at her, he'd been treated to a bemused look, a look of wonderment, sly curiosity. She'd been in such a good mood that she'd tolerated his furtive glances, encouraged him to return them, if ever so briefly. And they'd calmly returned to their work, averting their eyes, letting the moments pass between them.

Noon came and he excused himself, promising to bring back her regular from the deli. She was immersed in something, too distracted to do more than nod when he told her he'd return in less than an hour. Without turning to acknowledge him beside her, she muttered her assent. He would have felt ignored, he would have felt abandoned, if not for the smile in her voice as he slipped on his overcoat and headed for the door.

She told him to be careful, to beware of banks at noontime. He knew it was just a joke, just a reference to an incident many months ago, but it ignited a succession of memories in him, some less real than others. And as he walked briskly through the lunch hour crowds, he thought of nothing but her, of her lips, her eyes, her crown of silk.

He made it to and from the bank, nervously observing every patron while there, adjusting his suit jacket more than once, checking for his weapon. He made good time, zipped in and out of the restaurant, and he still had thirty minutes to go. So, he had stopped to peer into the spotless glass paned window, had been stunned by the anomaly of brilliant flowers in November. Their colors had drawn him into the shop, their fragrance had clouded his senses.

The shopgirl asks him again, asks him what would he like. He manages to stammer out, sputter out, that he wants a dozen roses. What color would he like? He stands, indecisive, body swaying side to side. Why not all of them, he thinks. Why not give her all of them? And the puzzled young woman composes a bouquet for this strange, lanky man, adding yellow, white, and red to the mix.

He leaves quickly, his purchase hidden within a plain brown wrapper. Nothing can disguise the scent, he knows that. But it gives him some small satisfaction that the few denizens of the Hoover building he bumps into on his way back to the basement stare at his mysterious purchase, cautiously sniffing the air. No one, not even those in the elevator, are bold enough to inquire. After all, this is Spooky, isn't it? You'll never get a straight answer out of him.

Finally, he approaches their door. He's made it back in time, down to the minute. He opens the door, and hears the tap-tap of the keys of her laptop. She greets him, never lifting her eyes from her task. He conceals his purchases, temporarily stashing them behind his desk. He rids himself of his overcoat, throwing it across his desk chair. The rustle of brown paper doesn't alert her, she supposes it's their lunch. The noise doesn't even merit a glance in his direction. She tells him that she'll be there in a minute, ready to share their usual afternoon fare.

He removes his shoes and moves with lion stealth, till he's immediately behind her. She senses him, smells him, smells something else, something that reminds her of her grandmother's house in summertime. Her typing ceases, she slowly turns her head around, slowly swivels her chair to confront her partner.

She sees roses in his arms, sees the worried look in his eyes, and quite ceremoniously takes a huge whiff of the air around them. A gigantic smile blooms on her face, matched only by her partner's silly grin. She reaches up, takes them eagerly, immersing her face in them, taking pleasure in their sweet smell, their vibrant colors.

She asks him, why? He shrugs, unable to formulate a reason. His sudden diffidence charms her, stirs her. She hesitates, smiles broadly, then rises from her seat, flowers still in hand, announcing that she's going to find a vase for these lovely roses. He smiles back, retreating to his desk, as she glides past him to the door.

Several minutes later, she returns and positions the flowers on a table close to her, so that she can both see and smell them the rest of the day. Then, as always, she crosses the room, joining him for lunch; their sandwiches already spread out on the one square foot of his desk allotted to that purpose. They make no more mention of the roses; they are there, across the room, buoying their spirits, scenting their stagnant world.

They carry on their usual conversation, habitually talking about their cases, as easily as they have across the booth of a roadside diner. When they are through eating, they return to their respective corners of the basement, finishing whatever tasks they must, conversing occasionally, in an intimate, audible shorthand only they can understand.

Around six, she turns off her laptop, packs it into its carrying case. He loads his briefcase with a dozen manila folders, then crosses the room to help her with her coat. She smiles appreciatively, then grabs her vase of flowers.

When they reach their respective cars, she asks him what he's planning on doing tonight. He says that he's planning on spending it with his girlfriend. Oh, really, she says, does she know that you gave your partner flowers today?

And he says, of course, she's holding them right now.

fin

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