“If you’re looking for the highway,” I tell him, “it’s that direction. Keep driving and you’ll hit it.”
“Oh.” He looks around at all the flowers, which are now scattered to the earth, some floating in the water beneath us. I can’t read any emotion on his face, and I realize I want to. That I’m curious what he thinks of this whole muddy scene.
He crosses his arms over his chest, defensive. The stranger takes me in, giving me one last, long look back. The sensation of it goes straight through to my core.
“Cool.” He goes to his vehicle. “You should probably check the tread on your sneakers!” he yells as he hops in the truck. A moment later, he rumbles away.
I’m sure he can’t hear me, but I still yell after him. “Lovely to make your acquaintance!”
That’s not exactly true, considering the ditch. But I hope he has a smooth ride to his eventual destination, regardless.
I kick out my leg, sending mud splattering against my little green car.
With no other options, I collect what flowers I can salvage and load my wet butt into the vehicle. It’s an hour’s drive back to the gayborhood. That should leave me with just enough time to clean up and start on this morning’s bouquets before I open the doors at Blossom.
It’s set to be another beautiful day, and I’m not going to let some random guy or spilled flowers ruin that.
