The Flower Shop

“Mom, where are you going this time?”

The man blocking my way was my son.

I remembered him.

Daniel.

Thirty-something.

Tall.

Too thin lately.

Always nagging.

Honestly, if someone could take him away and manage him for a few days, I would appreciate the peace.

“I told you,” I said, lifting my phone. “Fully charged.”

Then I tapped the card hanging around my neck.

“Emergency contact card. I have it. I’ll be back before dinner.”

“You’ll answer if I call?”

“Yes.”

Would I?

Maybe.

If I felt like it.

Poor silly son.

He had no idea his mother had a date.

Not the first date either.

I had met this man before.

Or I was supposed to.

We always met near the flower shop at the corner.

He brought flowers every time.

Sometimes he waited for me.

Sometimes I waited for him.

No matter who waited, we always met in the end.

That was what I remembered.

Not his face.

Not his name.

Only the flowers.

And the certainty.

He would come.

I wore my pink coat today and my little leather shoes. I even brushed my silver hair until it shone.

People often said my hair turned silver too early.

As if white hair belonged only to old women.

I was only in my early fifties.

Besides, I liked it.

A silver-haired beauty should be allowed to date.

On the bus, I tried to picture him.

Tall?

Maybe.

Dark from the sun?

Maybe.

Smiling?

Yes.

That part I remembered.

He smiled with his eyes bent like crescent moons.

The flower shop stood at the corner of an old street.

The sign looked like it had been there for years.

Buckets of flowers bloomed outside, bright and fragrant beneath the afternoon sun.

He was not there yet.

That was fine.

I could wait.

There were chairs outside the shop, so I sat down where I could see the street clearly.

If he came, I would spot him at once.

Inside the shop, there was only the owner.

A man with silver in his hair.

Not as pretty as mine, of course.

But not bad.

Actually, quite handsome.

He noticed me looking and smiled.

“You’re here,” he said. “Would you like some tea?”

I blinked.

Did he know me?

I did not remember him.

But at my age, one should not act startled at everything.

So I smiled politely.

“No need to trouble yourself. I’m just waiting for someone.”

He seemed not to hear the refusal.

A moment later, he brought out a cup of tea.

Red tea.

Maybe with flowers or berries.

It smelled warm and sweet.

He placed it on the table before me.

“Thank you.”

“No need. Sit as long as you like.”

Then he returned to his work.

What a kind man.

I held the cup in both hands.

Warm.

Comfortable.

Time moved slowly.

The sun shifted.

People came and went.

Some bought roses.

Some bought lilies.

A young man rushed in for apology flowers, which made me laugh.

Still, the man I waited for did not come.

How could a grown man have so little sense of time?

When he arrived, I decided, I would be angry.

Not too angry.

Just enough to let him know that making a beauty wait was a serious offense.

Another hour passed.

He still did not come.

My tea had long gone cold.

My mouth felt dry.

The flower shop owner came out again with a kettle and a tin box.

“Did the person you’re waiting for arrive?” he asked.

I shook my head.

Not today, perhaps.

The owner refilled my cup and opened the tin.

Inside were small cookies.

He poured tea for himself and sat across from me.

“Then keep me company while I rest.”

I looked at him.

There were lines at the corners of his eyes.

His hands were steady.

His smile was gentle, not nosy.

Maybe he felt sorry for me, sitting alone so long.

Fine.

If that man refused to come, I would chat with the flower shop owner.

Except the owner did not talk much.

He only drank tea and ate cookies.

At first, I felt awkward.

Then I decided silence was also fine.

The cookies were good.

After a while, he asked,

“Will you keep waiting?”

I looked down the street.

The sunlight had turned gold.

Cars moved slowly through the intersection.

Still no flowers.

Still no crescent-eyed man.

“Not today,” I said. “He must have something to do. I’ll come tomorrow.”

When I stood, the card around my neck slipped loose and fell.

The owner bent to pick it up.

His eyes paused on it.

Name.

Address.

Emergency contact.

My son’s phone number.

He handed it back carefully.

“Take care.”

“I will. Thank you for the tea.”

That evening, Daniel was cooking when I came home.

He asked where I had gone.

I told him I had taken a walk.

I certainly would not tell him I had been stood up.

How embarrassing.

After dinner, I went to my room and searched for proof of the date.

A note.

A number.

Anything.

I found nothing.

Not a scrap of paper.

Not a message.

Not even a name.

How strange.

If he had promised to meet me, why was there no trace?

Unless something happened to him.

My chest tightened.

No.

He would not lie to me.

I did not know how I knew.

I only knew.

He would come.

Tomorrow.