Fifty-Two Fridays

Small Bouquets

At seven in the morning, the street still belonged to delivery trucks, pigeons, and people with keys.

I arrived at my flower shop carrying a paper cup of coffee in one hand and fighting with the zipper of my coat with the other. The September air was sharp enough to make me wish I had worn gloves. Inside the front window, pale roses and yellow chrysanthemums waited in silver buckets, barely visible in the blue-gray light before sunrise.

That was when I saw the soldier.

He stood beside the door in full uniform, a canvas bag resting near his boots. He was young—perhaps late twenties—but the tired set of his shoulders made him look older. When I came closer, he straightened as though I were an officer arriving for inspection.

“Are you the florist?” he asked.

“That depends,” I said, raising my coffee. “Are you here to buy flowers or arrest me for opening five minutes late?”

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This story runs 1 chapter — most readers finish in one sitting, and you can stop and return to any chapter using the contents list.

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Nimra Khan — original fiction published on RapidTale.