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Devlyn goes outside to clear some of his supplies from foot traffic. Me… I wander the store and pretend to straighten the already clean and organized shelves and flower buckets… while watching Devlyn… through the windows.
Am I a lost cause or what?
I force myself away from the windows and head for the office. While we wait for lunch to arrive, I clean the small card table we eat at in the break room. Spray it down with all-purpose cleaner and wipe with a little too much gusto. After I straighten the napkins in the holder and resituate the salt and pepper shakers, I exit the room.
Elizabeth busies herself with bouquets and table settings for an upcoming Halloween wedding. Seeing the bride’s vision come to life has been impressive. Dark red and vibrant orange roses mixed with black calla lilies and black wispy spirals. As usual, Elizabeth places each stem in the perfect place. Her arrangements are always immaculate. Perfection.
My goal is to one day create bouquets and arrangements as coveted as hers.
I step up to the tall banquet-length table we use to arrange. Classical music plays in the background, loud enough to hear, but not so loud it hinders conversation. Elizabeth is in the zone as she shifts and adds stems. I don’t want to mess with her chi, but I don’t want her to miss lunch either. We generally don’t eat at the same time, but I always give her the option to go first.
“Hey,” I say softly. She peers up from the flowers, gives a small smile, then returns to the piece in front of her. “Devlyn insisted on buying us lunch. Got you cheddar and turkey on rye. Should be here any minute.”
“He’s so sweet. You eat first.” She snips the end of a rose and feeds it into the vase. “I still have a bit to go until this one is finished and I don’t want to leave it half done.”
“Are you sure?”
She leans back from the flowers, twists the vase left then right, scrutinizes the arrangement from every angle, then returns to her original position. Although I have learned a wealth of knowledge from Elizabeth over the years, seeing flowers the way she does isn’t a skill you learn. It simply exists. Elizabeth has an uncanny eye for arranging. A true gift.
“Yes.” She lifts her gaze. “By the time you finish up, I should be done with this one.”
I nod and watch her work.
In the beginning, I followed her every move for hours. Observed the way she selected flowers. The precision in which she clipped the stem. How she started an arrangement or bouquet, then brought it to life as she added one flowering stem after another.
In some regards, watching Elizabeth with flowers was similar to watching Devlyn with paint and a brush. Both mesmerized me with how they viewed the piece and how their fingers seemed to move without instruction. It isn’t a job to them. Put simply, it is an extension of them. Their creativity brought to life.
Devlyn steps up to the table with a large brown sack in his hand. “Lunch arrived.”
“You two enjoy. Just set mine in the fridge and I’ll get it soon.” She slides a black calla lily into place then looks at Devlyn. “Thank you for lunch. Was kind of you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Without a word, I lead the way to the break room. Take a seat near the wall and am surprised when Devlyn slides the chair out to my left instead of across the table.
Is it normal for friends to sit so close?
Don’t put the cart before the horse. IsDevlyn my friend?
He digs through the bag, oblivious to my internal inquisition, and pulls out three sandwiches, individual bags of potato chips, small paper cups of fresh fruit, and bottled waters. He picks up Elizabeth’s sandwich and sets it in the fridge, along with her fruit and water.
Brown butcher paper crinkles in the otherwise silent room as we unwrap our lunch. I use the paper as a placemat and dump out my chips. Then pop the lid off the fruit cup and water, ready to dive in.
The first few minutes of lunch pass in silence as we satiate our stomachs. Covertly, I side-eye Devlyn as he eats. Watch the muscles of his jaw work as he chews. Lick my lips when he swallows.
Do you believe what you eat says something about your personality? If so, what does the Cuban without mustard or pickles say about Devlyn? While on the topic, what does the roasted veggie with brie and orange marmalade say about me?
Most of my guy friends eat anything you put in front of them. Does that mean they are more open? Can’t be sure. I mean, I am kind of picky with food—eating familiar dishes to avoid change. Is that a personality trait that extends into the rest of my life? Is that why I am picky with men? Not that men are the same as sandwiches, or food of any kind.
“How long have you worked here?” Devlyn asks, startling me back to reality.
I swallow my bite then sip my water, praying I don’t have a piece of spinach stuck between my teeth. “Sixteen years next month. It’s the only job I’ve had, but I love it. Wouldn’t change it for anything.”
“Wow.” He pauses and stares at the pressed meat and cheese in his hand. “You don’t look old enough to have worked here so long.” He bites his bottom lip and I don’t hide my blatant stare. His bottom lip looks tastier than my sandwich. “If you don’t want to answer, I’ll understand…” He swallows and my eyes refuse to look up from his throat. “How old are you?”
Some women lose all sense of reason when someone asks their age. Me? I don’t care. Age is just a number. Age happens to us all. No sense in dwelling on something that happens regardless of how you feel about it. I say, never be ashamed of all you endured in your lifetime. Scars from years past can be painful, but they also remind us how far we have come. What we endured to get here. Own yourself—age and body, scars and wrinkles.
My gaze drifts up his throat and finally lands on his eyes. “Thirty-two. You?”
