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“I got to run, James. Leave ya here, that okay?” he puffs, trying to edge past the man.
“Sure,” James says without taking his eyes off me.
“I got something to pick up anyway… might be a while,” he adds, making me blush again, and I don’t even know why.
“Whoever she is,” his friend says before he goes, “she’s one lucky lady.” He studies the plastic flowers I’ve just sold him for more than the whole store’s worth, and he frowns.
But looking up with a smile after smelling them, he gives me fresh hope.
“James Jones here is the most eligible bachelor in the city! But I got to go.”
With a final pleading look up at James, who finally moves out of the doorway, he’s gone.
And it’s “take two, act one, scene one” all over again.
A re-shoot because… well… I don’t know who made it worse—James for acting psycho or me for telling him off.
Either way, Jamesissingle, and I’ve just made enough profit for the week!
Once we’re alone, and just before I have an attack of the guilts and want to chase his friend down to apologize and sell him a twenty-dollar bunch of roses, James’ deep, hearty laughter rings in my ears and vibrates through the whole store, passing through me like a bass bomb that tickles me just right in so many places, I have to let out a little squeak before I join him.
“I wouldn’t worry about overcharging him for plastic flowers,” James eventually says, reading my thoughts clearly, so easily.
“Larry can afford it. Trust me. He’ll add eight hundred to his client’s bill for the privilege.”
I make a puzzled face. James must think it’s about what happened earlier.
“Listen, Jasmine?” he says, stepping forward to the counter in one stride. All the laughter was gone from his face.
“Can we…? I mean… Can I…? he stammers. His eyes blaze for an instant as he wrestles with something inside himself, trying to get the words out.
“I’m sorry I acted like a dick before,” he finally says. “I just… I don’t know… I’d just like to buy some flowers, please,” he says in a theatrical tone.
He makes me giggle because it’s an impression he does so well of the guy who just left that I could swear it was him.
“But not the plastic kind,” he’s quick to add.
“And not four hundred dollars!” I gasp, not sure what I should do and less sure what made me do it in the first place.
I think the answer, the ultimate distraction in my life, is staring at me right across the counter. I’ve never felt so relieved to see anyone.
He came back, but he didn’t have to. He could’ve gone to any florist in town.
“So… just the flowers, then?” I hear myself ask, hoping it doesn’t carry the same sinking feeling I’m getting inside.
Maybe, like his friend, he might just need some flowers right now.
Hey, it happens.
He gets a pained expression, only confusing me more when he looks as lost as I feel.
“Just the flowers,” he echoes back. And I really can’t tell if it’s a statement or a question.
Men!
Grrrrr.
If only he’d just say exactly what he wants.
