Page 2 of Bloom

“What did this person do to you?”

“Pardon?”

“You have a fairly specific list there,” I said, nodding to the phone in his hand, kinda horrified, kinda curious. “Did they kill your dog or your grandma? Because a stinging tree makes people beg for death. For years. And there is no antidote or relief. It’s ongoing misery that generally leads people to opt out. Hence the namesuicide tree.”

He sighed. “I don’t want him to touch it. I just want him to get the message.”

“Right. I mean, sure, but it’s still a no.”

“And I don’t want him to ingest the monkshood or angel’s trumpets. But he’s well versed in these things and he’d know which feelings I’m portraying.”

I nodded slowly. “I think it’s pretty clear, yeah.”

“To answer your question, he’s my lying, cheating, piece-of-shit, soon-to-be ex-boyfriend. And he asked me to find some flowers for his work, so it’s a work expense for his business, which means he’d technically be paying for his own insult.”

“Sounds fair.”

He nodded. “So I googled which flowers I thought would be most appropriate.”

“The ones that can injure, maim, and kill?”

He looked at the list again. “Well, I originally thought a cactus, but according to floriography, a cactus represents endurance.” He winced and shook his head sadly. “Believe me, he has the opposite of that. Is there any such flower that’s the opposite of endurance?”

I found myself smiling at him. “Floriographically speaking, I don’t think there is.”

He sighed, deflated. “That’s unfortunate.”

“So, let me get this straight. He’s your soon-to-be ex, he’s a lying, cheating piece of shit, and he lacks endurance.” I nodded slowly. “I’m going to assume that you’re not referring to playing a sport in which he cheats and his endurance is how long he can play this said sport, correct?”

“Correct. If I’d asked if there’s a flower that says, ‘You should have kept your pants zipped up,’ then we’d all be on the same page.”

I laughed. “Right. Well, yes. The foxglove makes sense now.”

He brightened. “So can I?—”

“No.”

Now he pouted. “He doesn’t know I know that he’s a lying, cheating sack of... lack of endurance. But I’m thinking with an artfully chosen arrangement, he’ll put the pieces together.”

“So if the murder flowers are out of the question, what else are you thinking?”

He went back to his phone, quickly scrolling. “Ooh, okay. So, according to floriography of Victorian times, black dahlias are for betrayal.”

I was still smiling at him. “A bold choice.” I glanced around the showroom. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any in stock. They’d be a specific order.”

“Snapdragons mean lies and deception. That could work.”

“I have those.” I thought I’d offer some suggestions. “Orange lilies are for hatred, and the negative meaning of the red tulip symbolises aggression, anger, danger, and wrath. So those are options.”

He sighed, contemplating this. “I think I’m past the anger now, and I’m more into the you’re-a-lying-sack-of-shit stage.” He shrugged. “Aren’t there flowers that smell like a rotting corpse or something? I think I read that somewhere.”

I laughed again. “I believe so, yes. But again, you can’t buy those. Not here at least. You’d probably need to seek out a supplier online, and maybe a permit?”

He sighed dramatically. “Okay, so no murder flowers, no rotting-corpse flowers. This isn’t much fun.”

I was still smiling at him. “I’m sure we can find a middle ground. Are we talking one bouquet or a centrepiece?”

“It’s for the reception desk in his salon, Vintage Emporium. He said you’ve done arrangements for him before.”

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