I'D LIKE A DAHLIA PLEASE
A flower shop owner gets an odd visitor late at night.
Image: Basket of Flowers, Eugène Delacroix. French, 1848–49.
Praying for patience Layla stomped to the door and wretched it open. The day hadn’t seemed like it would end with customer after customer piling in to her tiny haven. All looking for the one flower she’d gotten tired of handling: a rose. Why they felt that roses were the answer to their problems left her puzzled, but Layla had stopped searching for even a minuscule of understanding ages ago. Just the thought of them prolonging their already brief visits as they blabbered on about it being their wive’s favorite flower— it wasn’t —almost moved her to tears. So she smiled as they each came in asking for a dozen, wrapped up the bouquet, and sent them on their merry way for their annually scheduled woo.
“Everybody else is dead asleep so your excuse better be good.” She said tightly. In front of her was a hovering, inky cloak steeped in shadows. One that, unfortunately, she was familiar with. Like clockwork they’d appear every fortnight asking for new flowers to give to the one who’d unknowingly stolen their heart at first glance. Try as she might, Layla could only ever make out amber eyes. Their face was indecipherable. It remained enfolded in a hood which never shifted even as the cloak’s body slowly fluttered in time with wind only it could feel.
Rather than the pompous reaction she was expecting, they instead seemed to abashedly wilt. Their eyes lowered from hers for a brief moment before the cloak visibly shook it off and straightened as their question burst through.
“Say do you have any more dahlias? She took them back home and she hasn’t taken any of the others.” The others were the rejected gifts. Either due to distaste or simple forgetfulness, Layla didn’t know and they didn’t offer a reason. Her only job was to make the new gift and then forget about the bemusing situation she’d found herself in until their next rendezvous.
“Eugh— this couldn’t wait until morning?” Layla couldn’t catch a break from wooers. Or a decent night’s rest. “The dahlias?” They repeated. “I ran out,” their cloak stilled. “But I still have some lilies from that bouquet.”
Putting her back to them, Layla welcomed them in as she plodded over to the lilies. It was her favorite flower because she shared it with her mother— the middle name she’d inherited from her mother’s first. Each July she always made sure to create a special bouquet to give to her. She had her visitor to thank for the lovely tradition.
Hovering over her shoulder, their presence left her uneasy. For all that she’d grown tolerant, if not comfortable, of them visiting her store, having them so close left her keenly aware that the lack of scythe didn’t erase what they were. Shivering, she ignored the raised goosebumps on her arms. She grabbed six lilies, one of the green ribbons she kept stocked solely for these visits, wrapping paper and got to work.
Only the thought of butchering the bouquet slowed her hands as she snipped off leaves before gently laying them on the waiting paper. Adding a few stock flowers and eucalyptuses next, she rounded out the bundle with a touch of tulips. Her hands flowed through the familiar motions as she interwove the flowers. Once she was happy with their arrangement, she wrapped it in the paper and finished it by lacing the ribbon.
“Now go,” she shoved the bundle to them. “How about letting me sleep next time, yeah?” Entranced by the flowers, their eyes stared at her offering while the cloak reached for the lilies and cocooned the bouquet in its fabric. “Truly, thank you.” They said delightedly. A hand found its way out and they reverently trailed their fingers through the flowers as they floated out the door. She let a small smile escape as she watched their exit. Then she was alone once more.
Each time Layla told herself she wouldn’t answer their knock and each time the lie tasted bitter on her tongue. Yawning, she shut the door and made her way back up the stairs to where her bed awaited. The annual wooers weren’t so bad after all. At least they let her sleep.
Read the the story’s creation in: The Making Of: I’D LIKE A DAHLIA PLEASE. The visitor, the woman, and the thread intertwining the two.