The sad man comes in about once a month.
Joe wonders if he should have asked for his name the first couple of times, but he never got around to it; now he thinks it would just be odd to say anything at all. Plus, the man always pays in cash, so Joe gets the feeling he wouldn’t tell him the truth anyway.
The man didn’t really breathe a word the first time he set foot into Joe’s small shop, tucked away just a few blocks from one of London’s busy underground stations. He merely nodded when Joe welcomed him, and since Joe is good at telling when people don’t want his help, he watched in silence from behind the counter as the man stared at a vase filled with orange lilies for a whole five minutes. His profile was very deep and very serious, before he abruptly turned to the stand next to him and grabbed one of the bouquets Joe had assembled just that morning.
It was made mostly of protea flowers and green leafy plants. It was rustic looking and had its charm, or at least Joe likes to think it did. The man paid for it with two twenty-pound notes and walked away as Joe turned to the till to grab his change. He wasn’t fast enough though and could only sigh as he watched the door close behind the man’s broad back. Joe didn’t even get a good look at the man’s face.
The second time, the sad man arrived just five minutes before closing.
Mother’s Day was always busier than he and Nile could handle, and Joe’s arms and back felt sore after spending too many hours unloading boxes upon boxes of tulips and pastel roses. He had been daydreaming the whole day about his bathtub and some nice Thai food when the little bell at the door rang, announcing the arrival of a new client. Joe couldn’t help feeling a little miffed at that sound then, but he immediately forgot all about his bitterness when he looked over the counter and saw who was there.
The man looked sad still. There were deep shadows under his eyes, and Joe finally noticed how big and bright those eyes were. Joe felt he could lose himself in them. Not in a nice, romantic way, no. The man’s eyes looked like two pools of tears, one drop away from overflowing. Joe wondered if they would spill if he so much as blinked.
He looked down at the man’s hands on the counter. They were big as well but looked very soft, and Joe fought the urge to take them between his own to find out.
“Hello, I’m Joe,” he said unnecessarily and pointed to the sign behind the counter: Joe’s Joyful Bouquets was hand-written in a nice cursive font, and Joe was really proud of the flowers he had drawn all around it. “How can I help?”
“Sorry,” the man said, his voice heavy with an accent Joe couldn’t immediately place.
He wondered if the man could be faking it, but he couldn’t think of a good reason why. This was London, after all. They were all immigrants there. Then the man pointed to the second set of writing just beneath the sign, announcing their working hours. He frowned deeply. It made the shadows under his eyes look sharper. “It seems I’m late.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” Joe said before he could stop himself. “Why don’t you tell me what you are looking for– maybe I can help you? No reason to stare at my lilies for ages just to pick something else.”
The man blinked, then half-smiled. “You remember.”
(continue reading on ao3)
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