Flower Girl Ch. 01

"Well, that's good," Beth said, obviously more disappointed than Tracy.

"Oh," Tracy added, "but I did meet a male librarian who seemed interesting."

"A guybrarian? Oh my god, Tracy! Okay, tell me everything!"

"Well, there's not much to tell. He read my stuff and said he liked it, but we were with some people and it was kind of awkward. He said he would email me."

"And has he?"

"Not yet, but that was just last night! I would not expect him to right away. Anyway, my friends who introduced us said he was uncharacteristically tongue-tied and seemed to like me, but I really don't know."

"Well, what does he look like?"

"Very handsome, clean cut. A little too handsome for my liking."

"Oh Tracy, you are so damn picky, just tell me what the guy looks like. Is he tall?"

"Not overly. I'd say five-ten or eleven. I was wearing my red boots and still looking up to him, so that's good. And he was dressed in very nice clothing, very well groomed, but a little too conservative for my taste."

"Tracy!"

"Okay, sorry," Tracy laughed. "Um, light brown hair, a very light beard, sharp features."

"Oh my god, I love beards. Sorry, go on."

"Well, I think I'm done. And he is a librarian -- that certainly says a lot."

"It says that he is educated and has a job," Beth snorted, the dig not wasted on Tracy, who knew full well what Beth thought of her ex-boyfriend.

"Well, yes. Educated, has a job, obviously likes to read. I'll keep an open mind, I promise. I don't know if he is even interested in me, other than my writing."

"What? Yeah, if he's gay! Who could resist you, Tracy? You have such a lovely dainty chin."

"Why thank you. I find the curve of your neck to be especially graceful," Tracy teased back with the random compliment that the twins loved to bestow on each other.

"You are too kind, dear sister."

"Ooops, customer, gotta go. Kiss Charlie for me and say hi to Mark."

"Bye!"

* * * * *

"Sorry I'm late," John apologized, removing his jacket before sliding into the booth across from William. "Work," he said, rolling his eyes, but offering no further explanation. William sincerely did not mind. If he were late himself, it would have been more bothersome, since William held himself to a standard he knew better than to expect from other people. Besides, William had a very low-stress job compared to John and he appreciated the fact that his long-term friend honored their commitment to dinner or drinks once a week, in spite of his increasingly demanding schedule, and so William spoke his mind, "I do appreciate and enjoy your company immensely, John."

"As do I," John laughed, aware that his language naturally became more formal in response to William's.

"There are few people who know me at the depth or duration you do."

"Much to Kate's chagrin," John laughed again.

"Oh, she is fine with our camaraderie, now. In fact I am sure she is pleased. Her 'big sister instincts' are relieved to know I have a true friend in the city, someone who knows my history. Of course, she would prefer it be someone other than her ex-boyfriend."

"Location, location, location," John laughed at his real estate humor. "I'm sure Kate can appreciate the bond between two Chicago transplants in Manhattan."

"And the fact that she is happily married certainly helps."

John winced, "Ah yes: Frank, that sloth. Tell me; is he still good to her?"

"Very. The man is a saint. Her neurosis barely fazes him."

"Good," John smiled, and then ordered a martini. William was enjoying a Shapiro, his beer of choice when dining on sushi.

"I met a woman today," William offered.

"Don't you meet about twenty women every day? One of the inherent benefits of your profession?"

William refrained from commenting. Yes, it was true he met many women each day, many of them beautiful and intelligent. He could not account properly for why this one intrigued him so. He remained thoughtfully silent.

"Okay, what is it?" John probed. He knew if William bothered to mention meeting someone, it was significant.

"Well, perhaps I will tell you about her next week. I'm finding this enigma a little perplexing."

"Well, you've definitely piqued my interest. She came into the library to get a book?"

"No."

John stared, waiting for William to continue, but just then a waitress appeared with his martini.

"Well?" John looked at William who remained uncharacteristically quiet. "Are you going to tell me about this woman you met?"

"A friend from the library introduced us. She was there for a writer's group and I read a sample of her writing."

"And I take it you were impressed, or you would not have felt such an attraction."

"Did I say I was attracted to her?"

"You did not, but you most decidedly are, William."

"Oh, I am not so sure. I mean, she is very striking -- stunning actually. But the problem started before I met her."

"Problem?"

"Well, I found myself uncommonly intimidated by her. And that was before I knew she was beautiful."

"This is odd," John said, sitting up straighter. "Her writing must be impressive."

"I am not sure that it is."

John waited patiently for William to go on, silently watching him wield a chopstick to mix wasabi into a small dish of soy sauce.

"It was so unexpected. I was at work, sorting through resumes, when one of my patrons, a young man I have befriended, came in and asked me to read his friend's writing. Such requests are everyday occurrences, you understand, but I like this young man and his taste in literature. Add that to the mundane task I was faced with and I gladly took the stack of papers he handed me. You do realize that I speed-read ninety percent of the material I am exposed to? It is an absolute necessity in my profession to stay abreast of all popular literature, so I breeze through most of my reading and only slow down if the language impresses me. If I like the taste of the words in my mouth, I simply savor them and enjoy the journey. Keep in mind I am talking about a very small percentage."

"She must have had a very extensive vocabulary to impress you."

William laughed and said, "No. She actually wrote in a very straightforward manner. No artificial embellishments whatsoever. No, it was the honesty, the direct language, and content that intrigued me."

"What was it about?"

"An aging call girl trying to maintain her income by providing services to a fetish clientele."

"Oh, now you have my interest! And it is very clear why she has yours. Tell me, what particular fetish does this aging call girl appeal to?"

William looked slightly wounded as he explained, "Well, she has not written much, or at least I have read only the first chapter."

"I wonder if she writes from personal experience or if she is doing research for her book. Perhaps you can volunteer to help with her research?" John was grinning but William was not. He went on, ignoring John's barb.

"What is most remarkable is that she conveys a thread of sweetness, of innocence... even empathy, as she describes this sordid lifestyle. That is what I found so refreshing. The book is clearly organized around a feminist construct, yet is neither preachy nor apologetic. I am certain the vast majority of readers, no matter what their personal conviction, would say, 'Well of course -- this Vera is a prostitute.' She wrote it as if it were simply the obvious choice, conveying her character as neither villain nor victim."

"So, if she writes in a manner that is simple and sweet, why in the world do you find her intimidating?"

"That is what has me so perplexed." William answered, for a brief moment looking like the sad teenager whom John remembered.

"Did you get her number?"

"Indeed," William confirmed, a smile returning to his face. "But strictly in a professional capacity, and I intend to use it as such. I am expected to call or send an email in response to her writing."

"Let me guess. You have written and rewritten it in your head a hundred times."

"You know me well, John. But I know what I need to do; I will meditate prior to writing Tracy an email. And then I will not edit."

"Brave," John laughed. He was not being ironic, much less sarcastic. He respected the fact that William had learned to meditate to deal with his own neuroses. He felt a great deal of compassion for his friend. Knowing where he came from, John was amazed that William emerged with as few quirks as he had.

*****

William listened to the very soft chime that gently drew him back into his surroundings. He exhaled deeply, and then heard a slightly louder chime, as he began to gently flex his toes and fingers. At the third chime, he opened his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. He stood and walked to the kitchen to get his cup of tea, which was still warm. He had only meditated ten minutes this time, but it was sufficient to clear his mind before beginning to write.

He sat at his desk, laptop already open and waiting, recipient address made out to Tracy as well as a subject line that read "Reflections on your writing." He was prepared to be spontaneous.

After taking another deep breath and a sip of tea, William began to type;

Dear Tracy,

It was such a lovely surprise to read the beginning of your story, a moment of serendipitous joy as I was involved in a rather mundane task when our mutual friend gifted me with your writing. I apologize for my awkwardness; I am not usually said to be short on words.

I found the chapter intriguing, not only in content, but also in the transparency of the language. You let neither the words nor their usage get in the way of telling the story. Your style puts me in mind of a puppeteer who is skilled at his craft; when the audience's attention is focused on the well told story, the strings become invisible. As a reader, I was convinced that the puppets were real. This is a rare talent, and it pleases me that you have chosen to share this gift with others.

I feel compelled to urge you to stay true to yourself. I admit I know very little about you, but I get the sense you are an exceptionally confident woman, yet perhaps unsure about your writing. My impression stems from your eagerness to share your writing and listen to feedback, and that you've joined a writing group. Opinions of others can be helpful or harmful, and so I urge that you temper their guidance with your own truth. I will quote an author whose own body of work holds little appeal to me, but I do agree with this sentiment: "Don't bend, don't try to make it logical, don't edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly." Franz Kafka.

I am not much of a writer myself, but a seasoned reader with an appreciation for a talented storyteller. I hope that you will count me among your beta readers, and in turn I promise that I will not allow your long legs to distract me or undermine my objectivity. Scratch that. I will try. All I can promise is to try.

Sincerely,

William

He pushed "send" immediately and closed the screen, not allowing himself to reread his own email. William had strategically timed this task so he would be forced to dress and leave the house immediately and would not have time to overthink his message.

But, as soon as he got on the train, William could not resist revisiting the email in his mind. It was not what he had planned to say at all. He immediately stopped himself and opened a book, but not before cursing himself for quoting Kafka.

* * * * *

Antonio and Tracy worked quietly at the table in the center of the room, until Tracy broke the silence. "I'm winning, Antonio."

"No fair! I didn't realize we were racing."

"Always, Antonio. And I always win."

"That's because you're working from the picture in your mind and I have to work off your drawing."

"True. I'll give you a handicap, but I'm really kicking your ass, you know. I think you're losing your edge," Tracy teased. Antonio was technically her employee, but she could not bring herself to call him that. Perhaps it was because he was older than she, or because he had been in the flower business much longer, or because he was such a great help, willing to do whatever was needed. The pair worked on Mrs. Hillson's centerpiece, making it in three sections so that it would be easier to move. "You'll need to set this one up, Antonio. You know I can't trust the delivery service with this piece. Mrs. Hillson is a very important client. Did I tell you I got another referral from her? This guy emails me and asks me to send a dozen roses of mixed colors to his wife for their anniversary. Then a few days later he emails me telling me how much she loved them, asking me to send her a bouquet of roses every month on the fourteenth for a whole year! Can you believe that?"

"Ah, smart man. He makes his wife happy and you make money. But my wife is not so impressed with flowers. She wants jewelry."

Tracy laughed, "That's because you can bring home flowers every day! If you worked in a jewelry shop I bet she'd want flowers instead."

"I don't think so, Tracy."

"Yeah, you're probably right," Tracy conceded. "Want to know the last time I got flowers? High school prom."

"Do you think it is because you own a flower shop?"

"Of course! Why else would it be?"

"Because men are scared of you," Antonio stated, matter-of-factly.

"What?" Tracy yelled, holding up the scissors like she planned to stab him, "Why would you even say that, Antonio! I am not scary at all!" She was jabbing the scissors at him and attempting a scary face.

"Stop it, Tracy. You will accidently stab me and I will have to sue you."

"Okay, brat. Why did you call me scary?"

"I said men are scared of you. I did not say that you are scary."

"You sound like my nana."

"A wise woman."

Tracy backed up to look at the arrangement. "Absolutely beautiful," she pronounced, hands on her hips, shaking her head. She looked over at Antonio and said, "Intimidating."

"Beautiful yes, but intimidating?" Antonio looked puzzled.

"The flowers are beautiful. I am intimidating. You said 'scared' but I am sure you meant intimidated. I've heard it my whole life and I just don't get it! But I'm not going to try to change a thing! Besides, I know it is because I work with flowers. I mean, I wouldn't bake cookies for a pastry chef! " Tracy had raised her voice and was animatedly waving a handful of ranunculus. "But that is ridiculous! That would be like... like... a musician listening only to his own music. Maybe an artist would like to receive a painting from a friend? Maybe a poet would love to have a poem written for him! A masseuse needs a massage too, right?"

"Tracy," Antonio said quietly, "I beat you. I'm finished with my side."

"What? You cheater!" Tracy laughed, "You did it again. You aren't as fast as me, so you distract me by making me talk! Damn you!"

Antonio laughed and came to Tracy's side to help her finish. He bent over to pick up all the clippings off the ground, then stood back to admire their work. "This one is impressive. Photo?"

"Hell yeah, this one is going on the website. I want to send a photo to Pierre too." Tracy went behind the counter to get her camera.

"You will make him cry," Antonio laughed.

"I live to make Pierre cry."

Antonio laughed, "He is the only man I know who cries over flowers."

"Art! He is moved by art! Pierre is very much in touch with his emotions. He is a gifted artiste!" Tracy was getting animated again. She was passionate about defending Pierre's idiosyncrasies, yet she also understood that Antonio felt a deep respect for Pierre. "The man is a genius and he taught me everything I know."

"He's a sissy," Antonio laughed, enjoying getting a rise out of Tracy.

"Damn straight," Tracy jabbed, wondering if Antonio understood her double entendre. She turned back to her sculpture of blooms. "I think I am going to leave it right here on the table for now."

"There is nowhere else to put it," Antonio pointed out. "Besides, anyone who comes into Petals will be impressed and want the same thing."

"Not many New Yorkers have the space for this monstrosity!"

Antonio nodded in agreement and said it was time for him to go. Tracy thanked him and went back to her spot behind the counter, hoping to work on her writing for a little while, but she checked her email first. Two orders from her website, one message from her aunt, and one from a William Travis. She clicked on William and read his email. She read it again. She read it once more. She wanted to respond, but the email did not ask for a response. It did not end with a question. There was no hook. Did he want her to answer?

Tracy closed the email and went to work on the two orders, postponing her writing.

After fulfilling the two orders, she looked at William's email again. She needed help with this one and decided to ring Beth. "Can you talk?" she asked.

"Uh, I have Charlie on my boob so I have a few minutes. What's up?"

"I got an email from that guy. The librarian."

"And?"

"Well... I don't know what to make of it."

"Can you read it to me or is it too long?"

"It's pretty short. I'll read it."

After listening to the email, Beth paused. "He sounds... interesting."

"You think so?"

"Yes. Very. What did you say he looks like?"

"Overly groomed and very handsome."

"Oh, totally not your type," Beth laughed.

"I did not say that!" Tracy laughed too. "But what do you make of this email?"

"Pretty obvious: he's soooo into you."

"Well I don't think it is obvious at all. I mean, he didn't email me right away and he... he doesn't actually say... Well, I guess he likes my writing, but... do you think he could just be... being polite?"

"He mentioned your long legs."

"Our legs are ridiculous."

"Tracy, in school the boys made fun of our string-bean legs. But those were boys. Men love our legs."

"Not all men."

"Well, he was an idiot."

"He was insecure."

"Our legs are fabulous."

"Agreed. So... it seems odd. He doesn't seem to want anything, except more writing."

"Send him more. If nothing else, he seems to be a good connection in the book world."

"Okay, I will. But I am going to wait so I don't seem too eager."

"You like him!"

"I didn't say that! He quoted Kafka!" Tracy shuddered.

"Who's that?"

"He wrote that awful story 'Metamorphosis'!"

"It was really nice what he wrote. He seems like he's offering his help and he is someone worth getting to know."

"Yes," Tracy replied, then got quiet.

"Don't overthink it, Tracy."

"Yeah? Don't breathe, Beth."

"Well, try not to. You know what Nana always says."

"Yeah, yeah... my head could fuck up a free lunch."

"Potty-mouth Nana," Beth laughed. "Tracy? I need to burp Charlie."

"Oh, okay. Hey, his email has one of those automatic profile photos. Do you want to see him?"

"You even have to ask?"

Tracy laughed and said good-bye, then took a break to work on her writing.

* * * * *

Andy should have seen it coming, but somehow, he expected more warning. Sure, he had heard the rumors. He had also watched the steady decrease in accounts receivable, as he had been posting the customers' payments to their accounts for over twelve years. He thought the furlough days would be enough, but now he was sitting in a meeting along with over half of the staff being told to pack up their desks. Just like that. One guy was cussing under his breath, a woman was openly crying, and Andy was thinking of Vera.

His credit cards were maxed out and his savings close to gone. He could barely afford her company as it was. "Slacker!" He heard his ex-wife's voice in his head. "Slacker!" His efforts to keep his life low-stress were now backfiring and causing him more stress. The job market was crap, but maybe things would turn around soon. He was handed a check that included all his unused vacation and sick pay, but after taking time off to bury his mom, that too was almost depleted.