That’s already happened, so the person still banging their hand against the door has to be an overly eager customer.
Just as I reach down to grab one of the large shards of glass, the phone sitting on the checkout counter starts ringing.
It jars me enough that I turn toward the sound quickly, too quickly.
A jagged corner of the piece of glass in my hand tears across my finger.
A single drop of blood falls on the white tile by my feet.
Pressing my finger into the palm of my other hand, I head for the checkout counter and the box of tissues that are always there.
Leanna was the one who suggested we have tissues available to customers. Ordering flowers can be an emotional experience for some people, especially those who are looking for a bouquet to send to a person who lost a loved one.
By the time I open my hand to grab a tissue, blood has pooled in my palm.
I outgrew my fear of blood somewhere around the time one of my younger brothers cracked his chin against the sidewalk in front of our townhouse.
I stepped up to the plate, dragging him back inside even though he was already five inches taller than me.
I cleaned the wound, bandaged it up, and took him to the hospital in a taxi.
He needed four stitches.
I deserved a medal for overcoming my fear of blood.
My seventeen-year-old self was proud that I’d played the part of a responsible adult.
Today, six years later, I’m still trying to master that role.
Some days are easier than others.
I glance down at a drop of blood that has soaked into the thigh of my dark wash jeans.
I can trade them out for the extra pair of jeans I have stored in my locker in the back room.
My wardrobe planning is interrupted by the persistent blare of a car alarm. I look toward the door of my shop. Whoever was knocking is gone, but I catch a glimpse of someone darting past on the sidewalk.
Dawn hasn’t settled over Manhattan yet, but there are always people milling about. I start my daily walk here just after six. My first stop is to share a brief conversation with a bodega owner who is always sweeping the sidewalk outside his shop. In the dead of winter, when snow blankets the city, he trades the broom for a shovel, but he never fails to have a smile on his face regardless of the weather.
My last stop is at a bakery a block from here.
It doesn’t open until seven, so I stand in front of the shuttered windows and breathe in the scent of freshly baked bread.
For such a large, crowded city, those moments offer a small-town feel that I once knew and still sometimes wish for.
The phone on the counter starts ringing again.
“What?” I ask in exasperation. “Who has a floral emergency at six-thirty in the morning?”
Swiping up the blood with a tissue, I reach for the phone. “Good morning. Wild Lilac. This is Athena speaking.”
“Hey.” A toe-curling male voice greets me. “Do you have a minute to talk to me?”
I’ll give him as many minutes as he wants. Whoever he is, he’s got a voice that I could listen to all day.
“Sure,” I say. “What can I help you with?”
The low rumble of a chuckle flows out of him. “You can start by unlocking the door.”
