Roses

Her hands were tainted with petals and green stems.

It was late in the afternoon, when she realized that she reeked of flowers.

You must think that a person couldn't reek of---of all things---flowers. In fact, they could be a perfect substitute to the cheap cologne and ineffective perfumes. But she did, and halfway through the bouquets of those red and white roses, she let her fingernails dig into each one and mentally curse the customers.

A person would walk pass by her kiosk, and then return again after acknowledging the variety of flora she had planted around her, ranging from tulips to daisies to her fine specialty, roses.

They, mostly men, would eye the flowers, and eventually, after browsing through each one and glancing at her from time to time, would place their green-stinking bills on the red roses beside her.

And then she'd pull out the biggest, flashiest smile you've ever seen. She'd receive the cash, open palms and wrinkly red jumper uniform, and bid thank you.

It was a trick. You see, she'd purposely stuck them there, right next to her. Not behind her, like every other flower out there. Just laid out there, in front of the customers' eyes, beside her blonde streaks of hair that were neatly pulled into a sort of ballerina bun.

Usually, in days like these, she didn't mind the scent of flowers all over her. Sure, sometimes the producer would forget to cut some thorns out of the roses, and they would slightly nudge her skin, but the pay was good. Better than good.

Now, the sky was yelling at her. As if it was ready to fall apart.

Her cloudy, grayish blue eyes would be a perfect camouflage above, with the fluffs and the now-hidden sun.

The sky was about to cry, as if she'd insulted it with her thin-straight lips and knitted eyebrows.

She could smell the flowers, lingering scents carressing her nostrils. She could touch their petals, brushing lightly against her arm and skin and everywhere.

She could sense them, as she did every other day, but now only stronger. Like they were, all of a sudden, sirens blaring into her ears with high-pitched tones:"Buy me! Buy me! Buy me!"

She'd imagine dwarves emerging from them, knee-length beards and all. They would crawl to her shoulder through her limbs and strangle her neck with their teeny tiny fingers. That would probably be ticklish, but the more she thought about them, the more it sounded painful.

The more she thought about this job, the more she realized she'd been living a lie.

Feeding off of people's hopes and dreams that someday their lover would appreciate the finer things in life they could give them. Giving them bouquets and finishing them off by mouthing good luck. Telling them that their lover would like the flowers.

Actually, all of this was a lie. Or at least, after the thirteenth of February, which was yesterday.

She rearranged her name tag, which was now falling away from the fabrics of her clothes. 'Hi, I am Patricia', it read. She wondered why it couldn't show 'Hi, I am a liar who doesn't really care about your love life. Please come again'.

"How much are those?"

Patricia raised her head, a beaming face. She could manage that, going on and off, switching expressions. It was as easy as finding a sarcastic comment for stupid people. She just didn't do it before because she liked to think all her work was sincere. Now it was just apathetic thoughts and unconsciously ripping off petals.

"Yes, sir?" Patricia asked, fingers off of one of the roses.

The man in the business suit and finely combed black hair pointed at one beside her. "One of those, how much?"

He leaned against the kiosk's facade, a genuine face with no wrinkles and green eyes. The kind that would pop out in a green foliage of a forest.

"W-well, uh, twenty five dollars for one bouquet," she stuttered, which she didn't do as much before. This man had an air of someone with professional tastes. Some people would walk with their crisp suit and ties but still manage to look desperate. This one was polished. "Two dollars a rose."

"Huh, funny," he stared down at the stems,"Last time I checked, they were cheaper."

I replied, "Well, it is Valentine's Day, demand is higher. You wouldn't mind, won't you?"

He paused, gave me a long stare, and pulled out his wallet, plain, black leather. It could barely be seen, but the corners of lips lifted up microscopically, forming a slight grin. A crooked one, at that.

She got so used to the job that small details could be easily detected every now and then. "No, I wouldn't mind at all. This woman..."

Here it goes again, Patricia thought, the cycle of customers that went to her humble kiosk in the street. Interest in flowers, and then a talk about their love life that seemed to drag on for infinity and beyond. She didn't notice they did, not until now. Everything seemed to be more clear this day.

He pulled closer to the front. "You see, this woman, she just came to the office one day... And, I, uh, I guess you could say I wouldn't mind buying her these. These---these things, those things---I don't mind them at all."

Love is always the soft spot with these professionals. Whether they may be surgeons or lawyers, whoever they may be, love makes them fall to their knees and shout Hallelujah at passersby. This one, no matter how intimidating he was from the get-go, was no exception.

He handed her the paper bills.

"Well then, she must be a lucky girl," she accepted them, and began to pick a bouquet. Sometimes casual conversation with customers gets the money going, she found out, when her sales shot up after several small talks.

Then, she stopped for a second. Why she stopped breathing for a milisecond, she didn't know. "Actually, I might as well give you a special one."

Patricia pulled out a bouquet of white roses from under the others, obscured by the millions of flowers flocking before it.

It was something she didn't want to take out before. But now, she felt that he needed it.

"Here," she handed him a bouquet.

Overwhelmed, the man bid farewell.

She waved, before feeling a buzz in her pockets. Phone.

"Hey Purple Patricia. I just wanted to let you know that... Kath and I are now engaged," a deep voice, probably a man in his twenties, called. "Thank you for the tip you gave yesterday. About what I should do for the proposal---yeah? Thank you Pat, you're the best best friend ever."

It ended with monotonous dial tone.

Luke sounded energetic.

He'd been asking her for advice last night, his furrowed brows begging her to help him.

His dirty blonde bed hair was within reach. His full, fluid lips moving and adamant to convince her.

Patricia was about to shut him down. He was going to propose to Kath on the fourteenth. The classic, romantic move.

Instead, she gave him advice, knowing that it could be the last time she'd see Luke again as someone... Someone other than a childhood friend.

And they thought she was this love expert, as she was sort of a florist.

She pursed her lips into a bitter taste.

The rain fell gently on the pavements, splashing with a silent thump. A silent thump in her mind, which now felt like a jar filled with only air. Passersby with umbrellas walked across and people without ran recklessly, shoes mashing with the puddle-stained cemented path.

The last customer a while ago, she forgot to mention something to him.

She watched the couples huddle together in the cafe in front of her, them regarding the miniscule drops of water as it fell down from gray puffs above. Windows slapped with pouring rain. The wind might have blew some drops at her face, just to make fun of her.

That hopeless romantic man was gone, along with the crowd of other love-hungry people in the world. All eager to buy roses from this girl with an affection-dependent job.

He was stupid in love. Literally. The customer didn't realize the small details when he sped off to win this girl who's probably not going to be worth it after a couple of months.

She didn't tell him that he was given a bouquet of wilted white roses.