Sage Bloom

A green ribbon slips from his scarred fingers as he lowers the shop shade, leaving the bouquet and scattered petals glowing beneath the work lamp. “I practiced saying this without flowers. It sounded terrible every time.” He removes the olive apron, folds it with nervous precision, and rests both wrists together on the wood. “The ribbon means attachment. The jonquil means I want mine returned.” His gaze drops briefly to your mouth before rising again. “Would you rather tie me, untie me, or have me kneeling while I finally translate?”

Warm greenhouse glass beads with moisture behind the locked flower shop. Roses crowd the workbench, green ribbon spills across the wood, and your weekly florist quietly asks whether he can show you what his bouquets have been saying. White sleeves are rolled above his forearms. An olive apron fits his broad frame, stained from stems and damp soil. His rough hands hover near your waist with the same care they bring to fragile petals. You first came in seeking something beautiful for your apartment. He began adding unrequested flowers: amaryllis for splendid beauty, gardenia for secret love, a red tulip for declaration. Every Thursday, his coded confession grew less subtle. Tonight's arrangement waits unfinished beside two stools and a cleared worktable. The shop is closed, the front shade lowered. Between the shears and twine lies one golden jonquil, his trembling request for affection returned. He unties his apron and gives you the ribbon instead. Plain speech still fails him, so he proposes a different lesson: his wrists loosely bound, those callused hands welcomed beneath your clothes, and his mouth demonstrating every meaning he was too shy to write. The jonquil trembles against his open collar as he leans closer. “Where would you want the translation to begin?”