#cupid!wally

Heartsick: adj. lit. despondent, typically from grief or loss of love. Synonyms; sick at heart, in low spirits, forlorn, dejected, heartbroken, wretched, woebegone, sad, etc.

Ugh! Valentine's Day. Could your now-Ex have picked the worst date to dump you? No! It just had to be the day, the one, single day out of the miserable 365 per year set specifically for couples? Ya know, the one you had foolishly marked on your calender with sparkly, puffy heart stickers? Yeah, that damn day. To rub salt in the wound, you had to work your day job; a florist/cashier for the local shop. Ironic, isn't it? You had to do it on your own since your boss was out with their partner too. You did the usual things that were expected, swept the heads of some poor roses into the trashcan, organized the blooms, check out the paying people who came in to buy bouquet after bouquet their sweethearts, yadda, yadda.

"Same kissy, sappy junk, different day."

You slouched over the cashier counter, already finished with the day's work & awaiting closing time while gently plucking the seeds out of your chosen blooms to grow in your backyard's personal garden. Like several times today, the bell to the front door signaled on its string to indicate a last-minute customer. You only had a mere ten minutes before you closed, so you bucked up & read off of your mental greeting script in an even tone. Not a sweet one, just even.

"My, oh my! You sound so lonely! Mind if I kept you company?" a smooth, lulling voice drew your attention from your delicate hobby in favor of the man that stood on the receiving side of the counter. Before you stood a seemingly Latino fellow with his blue-dyed hair styled into a pronounced pompadour. His black-trimmed red suit, like the rest of himself, stood out boldly against the faded cream-beige tiles of the environment. His collection made the hues positively pop in the bland, scarcely bloom-clad scene behind him.

"Mm, 'lonely' isn't the right word here, sir." Your tone never shifts, unlike your hands that swipe the organized seeds of your efforts from the countertop to the labeled jars you stash in your hanging bookbag. Once the zipper is replaced, you turn to him. He was quiet, polite, almost genteel. Anyone who snags him would be the luckiest person in town. A lovely thought, but not one by your downtrodden mind.

"If you're looking for cards, we're just about out of them. Same with flowers. We have Chrysanthemums, daffodils, dahlias, daisies, & lilacs." You gesture to the thinned racks of blooms from behind your counter, almost missing the man's focused gaze on you. Almost. His smile is seemingly warm & welcoming, slightly waking your heart from its huffy slumber before speaking. He says he's made a short list of what blooms he'd like & that you could stay behind the counter to continue your seed gathering while he poked around a bit.

Fine. Good enough for you. From your separated place, you watched him methodically choose his blooms without damaging them. The colorful blooms slowly built into a bouquet of meanings: Red Chrysanthemums, orange & yellow daffodils, pink & white Dahlias, some Baby's Breath you hadn't spotted until he tenderly tucked them into the bundle, then topped it off with a few magenta lilacs that were half bloomed. Sure, you were a symbolism-loving dork, but your soured mood barely lifted as he carried the bushel of symbolic representations to the counter.

With a tug, twist & snip, the flowers were ready to see the outside world again. You bid him a flat goodbye with the wave to match & he practically bounces out the door. Your phone chimes to alert you, signaling the end of your day-long shift & your equally day-long-desired return home. One uneventfully timely bicycle ride later, you arrive home, in a wooded area away from everyone & everything excepting local fauna & flora. Your spokes clack as you slow ahead of your bungalow.

The splotch of lively color on your headstone grey [front]door drew your attention to not just its blooms you had helped tie together resting in a sturdy vase, but to the seasonally hued, lace-stringed message as well. It read as a sort of romantic confession mixed with an apology note; the writer states he's felt many things about you & how sad he was when news of your breakup reached him.

He invited you to a short walk through the local park to talk over respective beverages &/or snacks possibly followed by lunch/dinner, should you agree. You gaped in disbelief for a moment before swooping up the vase & making a beeline for your garden where you felt safest. You were just dumped, were you really about to open your heart to another guy after it was freshly broken?

You sat there, staring at the positive blooms, their messages reading bold & true with the male's energy radiating from them. Your mind drifted to how carefully he coddled the bouquet in his arms when he carried them to you for finalizing. His warm aura your habitually cold shoulder fizzed against. Jeez! The more you think about it the more guilt prodded at what was left of your feelings. You give them fresher water & a little plant food before distracting yourself with homely tasks. By the time you were done, you had seated yourself at the table beside the blooms & their note.

Maybe a little time outside the house is just what the doctor ordered?