efflorescence

The time is spring when the world comes to life again after the long winter.

I am walking down the aisle with heavy steps. The smell of cherry pie from the bakery and the sound of coffee beans being shattered inside the machine are brought by the yet warm wind in April. Those scents warm my heart a little. At least I've made my mind to take a bite of that cherry pie after all this to cheer myself up. It’s April. The time of spring. New month, new season, new blooming flowers, new waffle scent, new cup of a 4 bucks coffee, new hope, new thought of hanging on for quite some time.

Sort of.

I take the right turn, then stop right in front of a flower shop. Buying myself a bundle of flowers won’t hurt. The bell rings as I enter the shop. The smell of roses comes through my nose along with the oxygen I need to inhale as a protocol to stay alive.

“Hello, dear,” a beautiful woman, I guess in her 40s, is smiling at me. Her right hand is holding a bundle of daisies. “Looking for something to welcoming this new season?”

I laugh nervously. Throwing my stare to roses which scent I exhaled earlier. “Well, yes,” I say, smiling. That awkward smile you have to make when you cannot do anything rather than smiling. “So what’s good for spring?” I ask. Her eyes meet mine. “As a remedy for this cold soul during winter that I—ah, sorry,” I gasp. I bite my lower lip to prevent the words on the tip of my tongue so they won’t be able to get out. This time, I soften my voice.

“I’m sorry I shouldn’t have talked too much."

The woman smiles at me. Her smile is so soft like a cotton candy. It gets me stoned and makes me think in the most envious way, do people with a smile like that still exist? Why can’t I smile like that? Is my heart really made out of stone?

She puts the daisies back to the vase, then grabs about 10 stalks of asters. She catches my stare. “Asters are good to start something new,” she starts smelling the asters. Whatever she does, even little gesture like that, is really charming in some way. She reminds me of women during Victorian Period. “You see,” now she is staring at me behind those stalks she’s holding. “They are tiny, seems fragile, yet—”

“Beautiful.” I’m sure I don’t have any problem with my hearing until I heard someone, a man to be particular, with such baritone voice, said the word beautiful the same time as the woman did. 

I gasp and turn around then spot a man standing near the front door with a guitar soft case of which strap hangs on his broad right shoulder. He steps forward, passes me, leaves the scent of fresh citrus and a smile which I translate into a “hello, excuse me, please step aside and let me walk.” And I do. I do step aside to my left and turn around again. He chooses the flowers seriously, then comes with a bundle of asters, sunflowers, and daisies, and gives them to the woman.

“I’ll take this,”

He looks for some money inside his jeans pocket busily. I almost hand him my 20 dollar. Just in case.

He finally finds his money and pays for his bundle of flowers.

“Asters, as always,” the woman says, still smiling.

He giggles. His shoulders lift a little bit, makes his guitar strap loosen from his right shoulder for an inch. He immediately strengthens his strap. I am standing behind him but I know for sure he’s smiling, like so wide. I distract myself looking at some other flowers, and sometimes still stealing a glance or two at him.

His voice reminds me of Michael Bublé's. Quite like, but not similar. His voice resembles the evening you spend on a date in an amusement park, riding merry-go-round while watching the sun sets with cotton candy in hand and soft and warm skinship in between the session. Where sweet promises of never let go as you two lock them in with a tight pinky swear spark beneath the ray of red velvety sky. He giggles like he wants to save it for the best laugh tomorrow when he watches Steve Carrel fight like kittens with Rainn Wilson in The Office. Maybe he prefers laughing out loud rather than giggling, and if so, his laughter might feel like a bag of potato chips -- crunchy and vary in taste.

“And beautiful, as always.” He takes the flowers and says thanks and praises how beautiful the flowers are politely. He then slowly turns around and walks toward the door, passes me. He’s just opened the door and rings the bell when a second after he slowly turns around again right to my direction.

“You know, I’ll always choose asters,” he lifts his flower bouquet slightly. His light and steady baritone voice fills the room. The wind breeze gets in from the gap of the door he’s persistently holding with another hand. The wind delivers the smell of flowers and cherry pie and makes his hair wobble a little.

I am too confused with a sudden statement that comes out of his mouth. I cannot proceed any words as a response. brain.exe has stopped responding, indeed.

Aren’t I supposed to say something at the time like this?

Fine.

“Okay?” Darn. Only this one comes out.

The corner of his lips lifts a bit. “But if you want to look for something nice for spring,” he sweeps his gaze to every corner of the room and ends his wander by throwing a smile--now both corner of his lips--at my 2 o’clock direction. “Over there,” he points out. I tilt my head to where he directs me to. “Tulips will do. You can add pink roses, too.”

I look at the tulips he’s pointing at. Quite purple tulips. Not bad. I turn my glance and tilt my head at him. He replies to my glance with a bright smile and a wave in the air, as if saying you’re welcome.

He turns around and this time he walks out for real. The bell rings as the door shut. I can’t get my eyes off him until he really drowns among people walking down the aisle. I sigh. I have no preference. This is my first time buying myself a bundle of flowers. Also the tulips aren’t that bad. I mean, every flower is nice, so yeah.

Should I?

I keep motionless for a few seconds before deciding the steps to my 2 o’clock direction he's just pointed at. Picks some stalks of tulips and pink roses, like what exactly he told me. Both five stalks of tulips and roses. I hand the flowers to that woman whose smile is getting softer and warmer. She seems nice. Everything in this room is nice.

“He really has a taste, no?” she asks, but more like stating a fact. Rhetorical. I respond with a smile and a nod, and a very low voice of “yes” I can barely hear myself saying this. She carefully wraps the flowers and arranges them into a beautiful bouquet. And before she finishes the wrap, a question abruptly comes off my mouth.

“Would you think,” she snaps. I'm sorry. She stops arranging and waits me to finish the line patiently. “Would you think that if I added some asters, this bouquet of flowers would look more beautiful?” 

There I say it. I know nothing about flowers. All I know is that all flowers are nice and beautiful. I just want to give myself a gift for almost surviving the hard time, though I know it won’t be ending soon in the mean time, but hey, isn't self-love important?

Asters.

The woman smiles brightly, this time softer and warmer than before. She nods then picks some asters right away. All flowers look fresh, and sure she’s a pro. It won’t take her too long to pick flowers with good condition.

She gets back to the desk and shows me the asters. White in petals and bright yellow in the middle. She asks me if I’m okay with the asters she chose. I say yes, of course. All flowers are beautiful. I love your picks. Out of nowhere, she picks some daisies and adds them to the bouquet. 

"Take it as my spring present for you," she says.

Now it's me who smiles. Fine.

As she's doing the wrapping, I hand her a verbal invitation to join me someday at the cafe upfront eating cherry pie and a cup of earl grey as a company. Counts me in, she says. I tell her my name and she replies with her name, too. Rebecca. Becky for short. It takes her about 10 minutes to finish wrapping delightfully neat. I say thank you as much as possible as I hand some money to pay for her work, and she replies with a more generous thank you. She's looking forward to joining me hanging out at the cafe upfront. 

I walk out the shop and stroll down the aisle with a beautiful bouquet in my hand. My steps are lighter than before. I can hear the birds chirping. The wind sweeps my skin gently. It doesn’t feel cold or warm. It’s somewhere in between, and it’s nice. I smell the bouquet, trying to save the fresh scent in my mind forever, and hide my bright smile behind it. I love this. This is the spring I’ve been longing for; where my strong and cold fortress finally melts slowly but surely.

Hang on, self. Who knows we are almost there for real.