"I release you, Noor."
She looks at my hard face. Tears stream down Noor's cheeks, just like all the other women that have preceded her and all the beautiful women that will follow thereafter.
Lux
As I enter my flower shop, Urban Garden, I inhale the potent aroma. I'm instantly relaxed, while dressed in a peach maxi dress, a leather jacket and snow boots,. I put the keys to the tiny florist in my red-and-green-polka dot apron pocket. The shop is so tiny, it's more of a vendor in which we have to run inside to determine what we need if it's not already in flowerpots by the entryway. After opening the blinds, I start to lug out the first clay pot of yellow roses. I sense someone's eyes on my round ass.
"Sup shawty – "
I know the voice. Standing up straight, I put a hand on my thick hip and say, "Deondre, I'm just about average female height."
Deondre has on distressed jeans, a navy blue polo with a New York Yankee's cap slung low on his head. It's difficult to see the sincerity in his eyes without peering hard enough. His skin is a rich brown, and everything about him has all the chicks on the block turning to look. He raises an eyebrow while handing me a chai tea. "Okay, Shawty," he replies.
Smiling, I shake my head. Deondre really isn't tall, but anybody can take a shot at me.
"Hey, if you want to give anybody a reason to come to work in the morning that would be me, my partner in crime," Aliyah says stepping up to the door a few minutes late, as usual. She's almost 6 feet tall, but lanky even in shape wear.
I ignore the two. I start putting the flowerpots of roses, lilies and begonias outside. After a few minutes of Deondre staring at my round derrière and making mmm, mmm, mmm sounds, he is off to his job at the sandwich vendor about two blocks down.
"Will you help me?" I ask Aliyah, as I'm hefting another clay pot with daisies. Setting down the pot, I quickly snatch my drink out of her hand before she can even take a sip. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. This is all mine."
"Luxury, you know I need caffeine to survive. Is that why you keep denying that sexy piece of chocolate?" Aliyah shakes her head. "Deondre smells so gooood, coming in here every morning just to give your unsatisfied ass a lil' somethin'-somethin'."
"It's not a conspiracy. Yes, he smells great. And no, I tell Deondre to stop bringing me coffees and teas all the time. And you're going to move these last two pots or no chai tea," I promise, being more of a fruit smoothie person anyway.
"For real, Luxury?" Aliyah whines.
"Yes, drag it right outside," I tell her. That will give enough walk room for the occasional shopper that wants to really ponder if his lover will like a certain flower or another.
It has been a couple of forevers since I've been loved, though I've never gotten flowers. Maybe if I look back, love never loved me. The man I wanted to marry, Arnold, and I had gone to NYU together. He was working on his MBA. I was still doodling around in a creative writing major, when I brought him home. Dad gave his approval. First guy I ever brought home really.
Lost my virginity at the high school prom for the sake of doing it. My boyfriend at the time made me feel pretty though, so there are no regrets there. Still I know I'm some type of pretty, even with a spray of icky, little freckles on my cheeks, light brown skin and curly, unruly hair from my Black and Scottish heritage.
At less than 5 feet tall, I guess I'm not to be taken seriously. At least that's how I feel after my longest relationship ended in marriage to an educated black woman. Shoulda, coulda, woulda taken after my father more, but didn't get the phenom gene. Besides having the same icky freckled appearance, he's an engineer, inventor and a very loud person – only when comedy is involved. Other than that, Dad's as quiet as my tiny mom once was.
But she loved flowers. And no matter how much it hurts to have never gotten them, besides my parents, I love them too.
"Good morning, Miss. Lux."
"Mr. Able..." My smile is as bright as the sunshine. It's around 10 a.m. when a black male customer comes inside. He has to be in his nineties, with hair white as snow and dentures so big that his mouth can barely closes. But once a month he comes to gather flowers for his wife. "The pink gerbera daises are over here." I direct him over to the flowers. They're so bright and beautiful.
"Heyyy, Mr. Able." Aliyah smiles, as she hands Pablo change for another dozen red roses. Pablo comes in often, and one day red roses will be given to more than just a 1st date. She chats with Pablo for a little while longer. We usually have puppy dog expressions on our faces, hoping for the best for him. Then Aliyah comes over to where Able is telling me about his wife's latest greatness.
He could easily say that his wife just woke up and cooked breakfast today and make it seem like matters of the heart. As if everything she does means the world to him.
After a few hours into our shift, the morning crowd dies down. So I lean against the glass display that houses boutonnieres and corsages. Aliyah comes over and we both sigh. Working at Urban Gardens is like being a Marriage and Family Therapist. We're often encouraging, giving advice, and telling stories of how certain flowers have certain romantic powers. Well, at least I think it's like being an MFT.
"What's going on with you, Aliyah? Is Tommy any closer to saying that dreaded three-letter word?" We stand there; both of us unloved, yet in the center of someone else's romance. Oddly, besides Mr. Able and a few local's situations, we are in the center of someone else's lives that we may never even know when lovers come and gather flowers. We didn't even get to delight in their counterparts' expression upon receipt.
"Well, I cooked him a hot meal. Thanks for that brownies recipe. Next time he wants them with a little umphh."
I arch an eyebrow, knowing exactly what she means. Potheads and me don't mix. Tommy pushes drugs and samples them too. But I had told Aliyah that when she first got with him to be mindful. So there's nothing left for me to say on the subject.
For a while, I'm stuck in my thoughts wondering where Arnold and Tiffany are. Tiffany is her name. She went to NYU with us. I hadn't even considered her a threat when they studied. I was gullible. We were juniors at the time. Technically, I was a third year freshman having yet to declare a major, when Arnold told me that his study-buddy had won his heart. But that was then.
The rose shaped clock near the door hints that it's almost noon. So I gather the black roses I take to my father's work every third Monday of the month and grab a silk gold ribbon to twine around them. My dad deserves the best.
"Wow Luxury, you are the best daughter in the world."
I shrug with a smile and quickly hail a cab. This is the only part that eats at my pockets. But nothing is better than seeing the smile on my father's face.
Victor
New York is a very loud place. While I'm vexed that Burt's sour face has stayed that way since getting on the commercial airliner and even after the ride to the Bulgari Hotel, I know he's mentally tallying up things to report to my mother. I'm 35 years old and Burt still goes back and tells mother everything. This has been his habit ever since I could crawl and look under females' skirts.
He swipes a white-gloved finger on a milky white glass lamp in the living room. "Besides the dust, I don't even understand the design scheme. Gaudy meets quaint," he says, pointing to another lamp that's a chunky gold. Then his mouth opens wide –
"If you sneeze one more time, Burt!" I snap, coming down the three steps that separate the master suite from a v-shaped sunken living room. A grand piano stands at attention on a black, marble platform. Glass walls extend from the floor to ceiling, giving us a 360-degree view of the entire downtown area, since we have the exclusive use of the Bulgari's top floor. To one side, the Empire State building is a dominating historical force. Then the Hudson River is visible from another area, and tons of nameless buildings.
"Do it," he mumbles at my threat after a few sneezes. "Actually, let's kill Whitson before brunch."
"Let's?"
"You do understand what I've inferred, Duke of Arlington," Burt says. I mouth my title with the same irritation that Burt holds. Even though Burt takes no part in my hobby, he is up to speed on every aspect of my life.
"I know and Burt you are an avid sharpshooter," I reply after doing the last button on my black shirt. I then pick up my diamond cufflinks from next to the "gaudy" lamp. I'm dressed in black slacks and shoes. All Burberry black, all me.
"I told you we should have opted for the vault." Burt glares at my cufflinks.
"This is a 5 star hotel, Burt. If anyone steals my cufflinks kudos to them." I give a soft chuckle.
"And then you will find and shoot them because that's all you do. Bait and shoot. Bait and shoot." His head moves back and forth with each word.