"Here are a dozen roses, young man. My, she must be a special woman."
Tristan beamed at the older woman over the counter, taking hold of the bouquet delicately. He gazed at each rose; some were a deep dark burgundy, others a deep maroon. Yet, only one rose took center stage with its vibrant crimson petals standing above all of the others, "She is. Very special." He chuckled, savoring the scent of the flora surrounding him.
The florist sighed, seeing that wistful gaze in the attractive young man across from her, "Oh, how adorable!" The little smile around her wrinkled eyes turned sour, "You know when was the last time I got flowers?" She glared the older gentleman next to them, watering the flower pots on the shelves, "30 years! It has been THIRTY years, Henry!"
The older man scoffed, guffawing at his wife, "We own all the flowers in this shop! You'd call me cheap!"
"You are cheap!" The florist growled out, shaking her head with pursed lips. However, catching Tristans' eyes, those creviced, puckered lips flatted into a smile, "Oh ignore us, dear. I'm just a little jealous! Let me get you a receipt." She pulled out a piece of paper and pen, calculating the cost of the freshly made arrangement, "What's the occasion?"
The young man was in a slight stupor; the scene he had just witnessed was straight out of a sitcom. He scratched his cheek, a little smile as he looked at the florist and her "crotchety' husband, "A romantic date with my special lady is always an occasion."
"You are a keeper!" The woman leaned forward, her eyes still on handwriting the invoice while she was unable to keep her nose to herself; "Where are you two going?"
"Dammit, Marie, let the guy take his flowers."
Tristan pressed his teeth against his bottom lip, the bottoms of his eyes lifting up as he tried hard to keep his laughter deep inside his belly, "The Tuscan Sun; that Italian restau-"
Marie gasped, her hand over her heart, the pen almost flying out of her hand, "How did you get reservations?!" The wonder in her glittering eyes morphed into envy. Her attention diverted once more, to her husband, " Did you hear that, Henry? The TUSCAN SUN! You never tried to take me there!"
The old man paused in his watering, rolling his eyes before releasing an exasperated sigh, "Sweetheart, you don't like Italian!"
"That's not the POINT, Henry!" Marie shook her head, frizzy gray strands trembling as she pouted, hands turning to the vintage tan keyboard, "Young men know how to treat their ladies."
"Get over it, you old-"
Tristan finally released his chuckle, lowering his head to hide his face. The sounds of their bickering did not bother him. In fact, they brought him joy. They are fighting together with love, much like the couples in those old fashioned sitcoms he used to watch. As a child, he thought that couples like that only existed in TV shows or his fantasies. He closed his eyes, his chuckle dying in his throat slowly, unwanted memories accompanying the nostalgia.
He turned his attention to the bright rose in the center of his bouquet, and those memories were locked away. The red, curvy silhouette of a certain woman shut that door for him, her toothy grin decorated with thick, voluptuous lips.
Would Ira be like that with him? Would she bicker and banter with him in a shop, forgetting the customers they were waiting on, teasing each other with gentle barbs? Or would they act like young lovers in wizened, aged bodies?
He to pulled up the rose further, taking in its strong scent, imagining the feel of orange curls fluttering against his fingers.
Would she want to own a shop, or more likely, a bakery with him? She was glamorous; those wild curls were as bright as an inferno, and her eyes sparkled crimson like the flowers surround him. Eyes that appraised him as if he was a prized possession. Something that entranced him more than annoyed him. Would a small shop be enough?
Would he be enough?
What would she like for their life together?
"Young man? Do you want your receipt?"
Tristan jumped slightly, startled, before giving a hiss. He pulled his hand away from the stem of the bright rose, gazing down at his index finger. A burgundy drop fell from a fresh cut on his skin, a bubble that glowed like the petal of the rose that entranced him. He flinched slightly before giving Marie an apologetic smile, "I'm sorry, I was a little out of it." He gave a little bow as he took the receipt gingerly from the florists' hands, hiding the cut, "These are beautiful. I know she will love these!"
Marie giggled, blotches of light pink coating her cheeks, "Please come back any time!"
Tristan grinned, picking up the paper bag at his feet, using it to soak in some of the blood from his cut before walking away. He held the bouquet in proudly his other hand.
He slowed to a stop next to Henry, setting the bag down for a second to covertly pass the older man one of the roses. His sapphire eyes glittered, "A beautiful lady deserves a pretty flower."
The older man raised a thick eyebrow before he took hold of the offered flower. He looked over to his wife, milling about the counter, before gazing back down to the rose. His lips curled downwards into a scowl towards the younger man, but his deep-set eyes glittered with silent understanding. He turned towards his wife, shuffling his feet to the counter. He took revealing his receded hairline as he carefully held out the rose, "For you, Marie."
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