The Couple Above The Florists

Short fiction

She liked sitting by the great bay window in the green room to watch the couples flit from the florist in the street below. Beneath the towering canopies of wisteria and carnations, couples would peer in the windows holding hands, only to emerge with bouquets of daisies and peonies to a shower of kisses. They looked radiant in the afternoon sunshine, even under the shadows of umbrellas and parasols, fresh with the sweet promise of new love.

He had never brought her flowers. Not once, even when they were courting. He was practical, too practical to do anything like that, she mused. She had asked him once, quietly, if she might have flowers for her birthday. He had grunted, pausing to flick through his paper. “Flowers?” He replied, dubiously. “They’ll decay in a month, and cost a fortune. I’ll get you something useful.” And he would. They had a new umbrella stand, and this year, she had a sensible grey scarf. It kept the cold out, she politely informed him, masking her sinking disappointment. No, Tobias was a practical man.

He’d even been practical when they were courting. She couldn’t deny it had worked. She wondered if he had read how to do it successfully in the same way he read books on how to train his dogs and hunt a pheasant. Whether he’d mathematically worked out how much to spend on coffee at the Metropolitan on…