Little Plant

"3 Dozen Roses for $20"

I had walked past this sign more times than I could count during my undergraduate time but never gone in the place. The metal bars across the door were hand-painted white in an attempt to make the anti-burglary device a bit more friendly-looking.

The inside of the shop was sparsely decorated. Fairly industrial buckets lined one wall, with a few dilapidated roses poking from the tops. Small shelves were mounted to the walls with a variety of vases, assumedly to sell with the roses. One florist's refrigerator sat adjacent to the buckets and another lined the back wall. In front of that a man in his late sixties sat at a fold-out table watching me in the doorway. He had the kindest eyes. I have never met either of my grandfathers, but I would imagine a grandfather would have eyes like that.

"You want roses?" he asked in a thick accent.

"Oh, no... I was looking for a little plant...to put on my windowsill."

"Ah yes, your boyfriend bring you your roses, no?" he laughed, "I have no plant, but my friend bring new roses in 15 minute. Maybe he have a little plant for you, yes?"

I shrugged, it wasn't like I was going anywhere anyway. A row of chairs sat across from the buckets of roses, and I took one.

Interestingly enough, the shop owner led most of this conversation. He asked me who I was, where I studied, what I studied, what I specialized in...

"Robots?" he asked, "You make robots?"

"Yeah."

"Interesting..."

Happy to find an opportunity to rant about something that nobody normally cares about I droned on after that point for a good five minutes. I'm not sure if Peter even knew enough English to understand most of what I was saying but he smiled kindly.

"So you found something you love?"

"Yeah."

"That's rare now. Too many people chase cars or money or attention but never really enjoy anything. Nobody find what they love."

Pete's friend didn't come in the next 15 minutes, or in the next hour actually. The conversation was interesting enough that sitting there was worthwhile.

Peter had moved here with his family from Albania. He had a daughter, which is probably part of the reason he was so protective of me, and another relative who I assumed was his nephew, who hit on me. My French is not what it use to be but at one point I realized he was scolding his nephew. I caught the words "like a daughter," and then Peter ran up and hugged me. It was rather surreal. I'll never understand why so many adults decide to "adopt" me.

The restocker finally arrived and Peter rapidly became absorbed in figuring out some sort of deal with him. The nephew sidled up to me and began talking at me. I made the mistake of listening politely. Most people don't really want to have a conversation with you, they want to enjoy listening to themselves talk, and this man was no exception. The problem being that once he decided my presense made him happy he became more active in pursuing me. He tried the subtle requests, I tried the subtle "no's" until he finally asked, "So, can we maybe do dinner Saturday?"

A polite girl is suppose to wait for maybe a second before rejecting a guy so she can pretend she was almost considering it. A point-blank "no" often hurts feelings. The nephew mistook my pause for interest and continued to advocate, "...and breakfeast too!"

***

Peter's restocker did not have a plant to sell him and I didn't agree to date the nephew. I did, however, periodically come back to see Peter mostly to chat but under the premise of looking for a little plant for my windowsill. I think by this time we both know Peter will not have a little plant, but we both really enjoy our conversations. Each time Peter let me select two roses and bring them home with me.

"I have to leave, I won't be back for a while," I said the most recent time. It was move out day. I was wearing the one pair of clothes I didn't mind packing away for a few months. The rest were in the washer. I must have looked like hell, but I really wanted to come say goodbye to Peter.

"Go away?" he asked.

"Yeah, I have to go across the country for a few months."

"And then?"

"Uh...and then I don't know."

He ran up and gave me a big hug, "Take care. What roses you want today?"

I smile.

"You have gained weight?" he asked.

"Ah," I laugh, feeling a little self conscious, "yeah, I was a vegetarian...but the food wasn't filling so I was always hungry and I ate junk food."

"When you come in December you so beautiful, so sexy. Go run and play outside again."

I can't explain why that isn't as creepy as it sounds. I partially chalk it up to Peter's gross bluntness and his limited English. Mostly I chalk it up to that this is how relatives that care talk: they say what they think you need to hear, not what they think you want to hear...for better or for worse.

"Ah, yeah, I plan to...don't worry."

"Good," he said, "you must be healthy!"

There's a quick pause.

"You have to come back," he says.

I nod and he hugs me again and then smiles, handing me a pair of beautiful yellow roses with red tips, "When you come back, I have for you, little plant."