I've worked here three weeks. I keep telling customers and friends how theraputic it is to work by the ocean, when so far the idea is more soothing than the cold breezes and rich people. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day or in a later time in my life when I have another job to compare this one to I'll say- "gee, I had it so good in a little booth where the only friend I have (the heater) broke today". If boredom is theraputic, this is the most therapy I've ever had in a job.
The things that should keep me busy- the flowers, are left alone. Like me to sway in the ocean winds and get picked at by passer byes. I think before I worked with flowers my idea of them was not unlike the theraputic sense I described earlier. I liked the idea so much, I still do. Although many of them are imperfect, each is unique and interesting. But what interests me the most
are the people. I hate to classify everything because putting things in a box has never been my way- I am not an organized individual. Perhaps this is because with all of my thoughts, all day- I think myself into a stew of stereotypes. This is supposed to be organization. In all, this job is what I look forward to. It is the most sturdy thing in my life since I've come home, and it's mine. I enjoy the sense of responsibility, the words that flow through my mind and the music that those words become- unhearable to anyone else, tangling in the rhymes and rhythms of so many people. The beach's bouquet.
A little girl walks by, wearing designer jeans and carrying a tiny dog as if it were an accessory. The mother steps slowly behind, with an identical dog on a bright red leash. The little girl holds them all in her arms and commands their destination.

I flip through a plant book and think about designer jeans that walk by and how the purple book matches the counter and my sweatshirt and my shirt and other things I'm wearing.

Yesterday a man came to the booth for what he called a "Birthday Bouquet". "No roses." he said, maybe pink he said, followed by the observation that his girlfriend was indeed a girl. Along with a few other "nothing too romantic" reminders I picked up a pale pink gerbera daisy and offered it to the bouquet and then to him. he nodded, exclaiming that his ex hated pink but wore lingerae in only that color. I turn a deeper pink and feel sorry for the birthday girl.

A couple walks by, the husband in a little boy blue sweater and his wife in capris with rhinestones up the side and an ankle bracelet.

I ordered too many drinks today and here they are: Clemantine Izzie, Tall Chai Soy X foam, Chocolate Creme.
I don't have to pee yet which is good I guess.

A curly head of the small girl is lifted out of her bike to press the crosswalk signal and another girl in bright blue mimics the table umbrellas across the street. In front of me the green paint pretends and peels, revealing grey and a fine wood- each split tells a story that I won't ever hear.

The urge to sweep blows past with the windfull fear that people will watch me.
So I watch the people.

Another couple comes close, talking about what they know- ignoring what they don't .
One could be learning from the other, and in a flash the desire to buy flowers is gone and they keep walking.
A woman holds herself on the steeps, and the contrast of the blowing green leaves to the stiff shocking red coral catches my eye.
The tip jar looks up at me as if to repeat; I AM EMPTY, HELLO!
And I reply by thinking about my first paycheck.

I see the women,
I always see the women first. Looking at the flowers.
Pointing out their favorites. Remembering when their husbands used to know. Them.
The colors of a marriage fading as all of the flowers do.
The ones that last longer kept in a dark, cold fridge. Those husbands, a few days after every importance- running down to the shoppe, quiet unsure, what is her favorite flower? What is her favorite color?
Something cheap.
Something simple.
Something I feel in a dark, cold, place.
Someone I hardly know anymore.
The heater is broken, and I suck down cold drinks that I am only familiar with when hot.
Can I enjoy them any other way?
There is something deeper here that I am getting at, I don't want to cheapen it with words, or misplace, or misunderstand. So I suppose I should remain silent. Talking to a paper. At least a paper can hold me, my record, and not forget it.
That is, unless I am the one who has lost it.

My favorite flower is the Calla Lilly