Guy on the Bus Bringing Home Flowers on Valentine's Day
On labors of love.
Roses were always so much work. They shipped in a long, skinny box—all the flowers did, and it was my job to unpack them at my part-time teenaged back-of-house florist gig.
Lilies, too, needed extra care. All the expensive flowers did. You'd pluck off the lily pollen, sometimes reaching into a barely open bloom to get it out. When you'd finished, your fingertips would be stained yellow-orange, like jaundice or Cheeto dust.
But the roses. Inside the box, each individual flower was wrapped in its own little cardboard casing, keeping them from bruising one another. You'd open each and pluck off any wilted petals until it looked perfect again. Then, with a knife, you'd slice off every thorn, careful not to cut into the stem too deeply or cut yourself in the process. Only then did it go in the bucket of water and, when the bucket was full, into the cooler, waiting until it was needed.
There would be hundreds of roses, and I would do this for hours at a time. I'd sweep up the pile of petals and thorns and cut pieces of stems that had fallen around my feet at the end of my shift.
Anyway, the guy with his big bouquet on the bus—when I saw him, the roses were all I thought of.