I open the door, hearing the bell announcing my presence. He looks up, his weathered gray eyes taking me in. I smile shyly, pressing my handbag closer to me. “Bonjour.”
The gentleman nods without bothering to smile back before returning his attention to the counter once more, wiping away an imaginary spot. Dismissed, I walk hesitantly around the outdated place, observing the different blooms. Roses in different colors. Orchids in jade green vases. Carnations. Daffodils. Freesias. There aren’t that many, and whatever is left seems to be dying along with the store. Sadness fills me from within as I steal a quick glance of the older man with the melancholic eyes. Store, man, and flowers alike seem to be wilting with time and the blues.
I return my attention to the flower in front of me. Extending a hand, I stroke the petals of a white orchid. “Hello, pretty thing.”
Ever since I can remember, flowers have always been a big part of who I am. When I was little, I would spend hours in the small patch of wild grass behind the trailer. Lying on the ground, hands behind my head, I’d pretend to be Alice in Wonderland. And like in the Disney film, the few wildflowers that surrounded me would come alive and talk to me and sing along with me. My aunt used to shake her head at me calling me a silly chit, but some nights, after a good day of tips at the diner, I would find one of our kitchen glasses sitting on my nightstand filled with whatever flower was on sale. I would take care of them, and in return, they filled our home with color and beauty.
The old man coughs behind me, reminding me that I’m not alone. Blushing, I reach for the orchid and make my way to the counter. What must he think of me?
“Magnifique,” I say, placing the flower on the table, proud of myself for not butchering the French language altogether. He wraps the orchid in cellophane and puts it in a brown paper bag as I reach for my wallet inside my bag, pulling out a credit card and handing it to him.
“Merci.” He takes it and rings me up.
As he’s swiping it in the machine, I inspect the rest of the store. The path to the back room is filled with discarded boxes. Dusty books pile up on the floor like tiny mountains, and the cheese and bread he had for lunch sit half eaten on a wooden table, a small fly buzzing around it. My gaze stops on a single frame hung on the wall behind the counter—the only thing that seems to be clear of dust in a place covered in it. Drawn to it, I study the aged black and white photograph of a young couple from afar. The handsome man in the picture is lazily reclining against the side of a car, his attention on the beautiful woman smiling for the camera. It’s a gorgeous shot, but what truly makes it breathtaking is the emotion in the man’s gaze. You can see his heart in his eyes, and his heart belongs to her. How he must have loved her.
There’s a pang in my soul as sorrow spreads through my blood. I once dreamed to be loved like that, and, for a while, I thought my dream had come true.
But it turns out dreams don’t last forever.
The gentleman finishes the transaction and hands me the receipt to sign. As I slide it back, my gaze lands on him standing directly underneath the picture and suddenly understanding dawns on me. I see it all too clear. The lack of warmth or a female touch. The dying flowers. The state of neglect in the store. But especially the man’s empty eyes, so different from the photograph.
The man has lost his heart.
The transaction finished, all that there is left for me to do is to grab the bag with the orchid and take my leave. Part of me wants to linger in the store, keeping the lonely man company, but he would probably think I’m a psycho hanging around while talking to flowers.
I let out a resigned sigh, thank him, and walk out the door. When I’ve taken no more than five steps, I stop and take one last look at the man in the shop. He’s gone back to polishing the same spot on the counter, his movements lifeless and colorless like his surroundings. I shake my head irritated at being so powerless. About to move, my eyes land on a handwritten ad Scotch-taped onto the window glass. I step closer to the window, take out my phone and type in the words in a translation app.
Recrute vendeur H/F
Oh, my God. This is it.
Energy jolts my senses like an electroshock. Acting on an impulse, I go back inside, tear the paper off the window and bring it with me to the counter. What are you doing, I hear a small voice inside me ask. He doesn’t want your help. Well, he’s stuck with it. You have no experience other than a few floral design classes. When was the last time you even had a job? You’re nothing but a pretty accessory. That makes me pause. The old doubts come back like an angry wave, threatening to drag me back in its undertow. But there’s another voice inside my head, growing louder and louder by the second. It tells me to keep walking, to not give up, to keep swimming.
You won’t drown, Valentina.
You are strong enough.
Surprise registers in the man’s expression when he sees me standing in front of him for the second time in a day. Butterflies wreck my stomach. I place the bag and ad on the counter. His gray eyes widen in astonishment as they land on the cream-colored sheet.
I reach for my bag and pull out my phone and a notepad. Opening the translation app, I type in:
Is the position still available?
Est ce que le poste est encore disponible?
I feel sheepish and a little silly, aware that the translation isn’t always exact, but for now, it will have to do. This French is better than no French at all. After writing it on the notepad, I slide it across the glass toward him. The gentleman cracks a tiny smile as he scans the words written on the sheet, and in that brief second, he’s the young man in the picture once again. A glimmer of hope lights me from the inside out because maybe I can help him after all. And the fact that I put that smile on his face fills me with a new sense of pride and joy—of purpose.
He raises his head and meets my eyes. And in that moment, it’s as though we both see and recognize something in one another. Pain, maybe? Two souls shouting for help?
Biting my lip nervously, I point at the notepad first. “Vendeur.” I point at myself then. “Me. Moi.”
He nods in understanding. Reaches for a pen and writes his response down. As I watch the blank ink marking the paper, I swear I can hear the beating of my heart. Feel it beating out of my chest. The realization that I need this like I need my next breath hits me in the head like a brick.
I reach for the notepad with trembling fingers. When I read the one sentence, there’s a burst of emotions in my chest—an explosion of bright colors—charging me with life.
Oui, le poste est toujours disponible. Vous êtes embauchée.
I look up the translation on my phone just to make sure that I’m not jumping to conclusions. The words begin to blur, and I realize that I’m crying tears of what? Joy? Exaltation? Yes and yes. Yes to everything.
I know it’s silly. All I would be doing is helping a man lost in a decaying store, but to me, it means so much more.