Saying It With Flowers by Trevor Danby

Roger was a young man, so hopelessly, foolishly and dangerously in love, that, after dancing alone in his room, kissing a cushion held to his breast, and having stared moodily out of the window, not only to Tchaikovsky's "Romeo and Juliet", but also to Frank Sinatra's "No-one ever tells you" (which showed how hopeless he was), there remained the one final committed expression of his all-consuming passion.

Just as love inflamed his heart, so he would burn his boats; led by his aching soul, he would travel beyond the point of no return, and, ignoring the advice of family, friends, and the expression on his dog's face (which showed just how foolish he was), he would rush straightaway to his local florist and buy the biggest bouquet he could afford.

And rush he did. There was no sensible walking to his destination, no decorous exchange of greetings with neighbours on the way, no waiting while green lights told him he could proceed; he was oblivious to the world around him. People glared at him as he spun them round and cars honked as he raced in front of them, showing how dangerous he was. He had the madness of Black Magic Chocolates in him.

There he stood, at last, surrounded by tiered ranks of flowers, standing in vases, porcelain bowls and prosaic buckets, which his poetic soul preferred to call ‘pails'.
His entrance set off the hanging door bell, and a young woman came from the back and asked, in a polite and sweet-tempered way, if she could help.

He gave a helpless shrug, gestured at the horticultural array, and told her he was looking for a bouquet to express, - and struggling to express feelings to a stranger, he came out with - "a very special message to a person with whom one seeks closer intimacy". The pretty young woman smiled from under long eyelashes, half in mirth and half in compassion.

She asked if she might make some suggestions. He nodded eagerly.

The pretty young florist with shining blond hair reached out for some carnations, held them up next to her neck, suggesting that perhaps the colours were delicate but the straight stems hinted at a certain formality. She wondered whether they might come near to expressing his feelings. He viewed the flowers for a moment, and, at the same time, he noticed the pale cream curve of her neck, bronzed by the sun, and caressed by curls that cascaded round it.

He said he felt that maybe the carnations were - yes - a little formal. She smiled assent. Next, she held up a mixed bouquet of fuchsia and freesia, full of heady perfume. These she placed at her breast and breathed deeply, and while extolling their virtues, suggested their delightful informality hinted at a touch of disorder. He watched the bouquet rise and fall on her breast as she breathed in its fragrance, and agreed that, there was, indeed, that hint. She held up some irises, and referred to the open-mouthed petals' suggestion of total surrender. Perhaps a little premature and presumptive, she suggested, looking sideways at him in a coy manner. He took in the image of open-mouthed surrender, and he was also aware of the pretty young florist's curled eyelashes and their fluttering invitation. Oh, yes, definitely premature, he agreed.

In the next few moments, she went through a whole repertoire. She posed with effusive gladioli, draped happy-go-lucky sweet peas over her arms, peeped mischievously over cheerful extrovert Narcissi, half closed her eyes letting exotic and dangerously inviting lilies frame her face, so that by the end of this display, he was intimately acquainted, not only with all the floral possibilities, but with all the delineations and mercurial expressions of her impishly expressive and beautiful face, not to mention the convexes and concaves of her form. He swallowed hard. Which, he asked, deferentially, would be her own preference? Ah, without a doubt in the world, she proclaimed like an actress in the classical vein, it would have to be the roses. The white, she explained, for pure, idealised love, the red for a deeply wounded heart and pink for romantic desire. It seemed to him that she stood with the far away look of one who had experienced it all.

In an instant he found himself ordering a dozen of each colour. She wrapped them with a cryptic smile. He handed her the money with trembling fingers. She extended the roses to him. He cradled them briefly as if they were the off-springs of his own soul, and then handed them back to her with the hopelessly inadequate, foolishly unpremeditated, and dangerously understated, "For you." Before she could reply, he had turned on his heel and exited through the door.

Later, while he was staring hopelessly out of his window to the strains of Ravel's ‘Valse Sentimentale' and his dog, nose between paws, looked dolefully up at him, the beautiful young florist unwrapped the roses and placed them back in their vases in the shop window.