About the Flowers
You count six of them, four boys and two girls, teenagers, yelling obscenities as they straggle into the bus station. One of the girls sees you, a lone man huddled under the station clock clutching an enormous bunch of flowers, and points you out to the others. They fall silent and head towards you.
You glance around the forecourt. It’s poorly lit, but as far as you can make out, the place is deserted except for you and them. You’re reminded of stories about random attacks at night in places exactly like this and think of making yourself scarce. But it’s too late—they surround you.
One of the boys steps forward, seventeen, eighteen, but with old man eyes and stripes like scars etched into his eyebrows. Your heart feels as though it’s about to burst right through your chest and fly to the safety of home.
“Flowers,” the boy says, making it sound like an accusation. “Who they for?” You flinch, knowing that any moment now he could lunge at you with a knife or smash his fist into your face.
“A woman,” you say, when you find your voice, then you remain silent, holding back the urge to tell him everything:
That her name is Nancy, and you met in Patels Papers, the newsagent’s where she works part-time. That her smile, as you approached the counter, made you forget why you’d gone inside. And you walked out empty-handed, with your cheeks burning red.
That you couldn’t stop yourself returning, and you asked her out. “For a date?” she said. Not if she didn’t want it to be, you told her, and there was the smile again. “No,” she said, “I’d like it to be a date if you don’t mind.” And afterwards, on your way home, you felt like Gene Kelly dancing in the rain.
That you weren’t sure whether to bring her anything, but you decided on flowers because you wanted to make her feel special. And when the woman on the flower stall asked who they were for, she said she was about to close and gave you all the cut flowers she had left for the price of a small bouquet. Now you wonder if they don’t seem over-the-top for a date.
That even though you must be ten years this boy’s senior, you probably don’t have anything like his experience of dating.
And more than ever lately, you’ve grown oh so tired of keeping your own company.
You look up, surprised to see the boy already leaving. Maybe he decided you’re not worth the trouble. You want to call out to him: Don’t despair. We breathe the same air, you and I. If my luck can change, there’s got to be hope for everyone.
Digby Beaumont is a writer living in Brighton, England. He worked as a nonfiction author for many years, with numerous publications. Now he writes mostly short fiction. His recent stories appear or are upcoming in The Rose & Thorn, Pindeldyboz, 34th Parallel, The Linnet’s Wings, Slow Trains and others, as well as in the anthologies Small Voices, Big Confessions, Late-Night River Lights and City Smells.