Someone had been stealing my flowers. They were on display in small ceramic pots atop stacked wooden crates, and individual stalks had vibrant petals blooming from grey plastic containers filled with water on the pavement. The flowers were right outside the tall front window, shaded under a green awning. At first, it was a stalk, then two and three from different flowers — now, a whole container of lilacs was missing! It would have been much easier to steal the petunias on the table just above it. I stared into the shop through the window while considering the peculiar nature of the crime. Was it one of the grammar school boys who always passed by on the way to the ice cream shop down the street? I shook my head at the idea; their innocent faces were still fresh in my memory from two days ago. Was it a surprisingly strong elderly woman whose age demographic frequented the church on Sundays like today? Again, I waved away the idea; her devout slouch was unlikely to be involved in such petty theft. So, why were my flowers missing? As I pondered the strange case, the shadow of a burly figure bobbed up and down on my right, their enormous strides approaching with purpose. I inhaled deeply, enough to feel my lungs touch my ribcage, then expelled the air with a pop of my lips. The voice that called out to me was deep and resonant, a soothing timbre that carried the weight of experience. “Oy, could yer’ elp me for a bit?” The words sounded round as his mouth barely shrank at the vowels, slipping out the sides instead. I knew the voice and rough accent, Clark — the pub owner just three doors from me, a victim of the occasional rebellious pseudo-teenagers that tried to sneak into his establishment. It was always interesting to see how young minds changed after ten as if the back numbers were a scale for the distance between innocence and adulthood. Despite possibly being my closest acquaintance in this city, I never remembered his first name, but I did know that he came from the South too, or rather, the southeast of the country. I sometimes thought that accent had to be fake, a ruse to sound tougher to those kids. “Come on! It’s abou’ my wife again.” My wife? Oh, his wife! He had a sheepish look on his face, waiting for a while for my response as I nodded slowly. Like his wife, who had somehow pressured her husband into coming, the afternoon sun was beating down relentlessly on us. It was getting hard to breathe, I felt, but I could not tell if it was the heat or the anxious beating of my heart. A long time had passed since my wife died, so I often forgot about it until the memories were brought out, opening and closing like the leaves of the mimosa plant. My chest was uncomfortable, so I motioned to follow me inside the shop, holding the door open. The bell tingled when I opened it, and apparently, the sound gave him a revelation as he walked in, revealing his secret opinion about me from the first time we met. “Yer, um, what’s the word, eh?” He used the meaty part of his palm and knocked his head twice. “Real genteel”. I looked down at the door handle in my left hand. Well, Clark was not wrong. It was a trap, that door, in more ways than one. After a particularly large delivery, I found myself stuck carrying supplies, my back against one side and the box on the other. My wife had loved a good joke, laughing boisterously and joking that I was a fly caught in the leaves of a Venus flytrap. I chuckled as any good husband would, though it really was not that funny since she left one day and never returned alive. We stood at the front counter with the till, an ornately decorated cash box that served more aesthetic features than functional ones. It was not my preference or choice, but I had let it be, like the case of the missing flowers that had grown out of hand. I raised my palm towards Clark, signalling him to begin his plea. His story was the same old today. He and his wife fought over something or the other — they were that sort of couple, but they truly loved each other, and more importantly, they both secretly knew it. “She said I ain’t a romantic fella!” Flowers would be perfect to resolve this dispute, Clark declared. He talked about small grievances from the past week, then over the years, like he was confessing in church. I simply listened, staring around the narrow shop at the fridge of flowers to the right and a shelf of gardening supplies in the centre of the shop. The more he shared, the more his voice became distorted, sounding like mine. We were awfully similar, and I could not help but hate it. The shop’s back wall only antagonised me; the hampers and gifts filled half the wall, leaving ample space for elaborate bouquets no longer sold. I never understood flower arrangement, and it was too late when I started to learn from my wife. My own sins could never be absolved, leaving only regrets that resembled torn daisy petals from a game of “loves me, loves me not”. I must have gone absolutely bonkers at the moment as the stolen flowers came back into my mind — Was it one of my customers who stole them? Was it Clark who needed to smooth things over with his wife and pinched them as a bold gesture of sorts? “Bloody ‘ell, why am I blabberin’? Yer already know all about these sorts of scraps yourself, don’t ya?” The sting of his assumption brought me back to the present. The man did nothing wrong, and I must have looked in bad shape for Clark to stop his rambling. He was a good man, and there was definitely one thing we differed in, tact. His wife would agree with me if she were here. His clueless and worry-free expression said it all, and I saw that despite our similarities, we both did not know each other very well. I gave a small smile, patting his shoulder in a sign of understanding and agreement. There was no need to tell him, and I would much instead let his wife have the pleasure of berating him for his impoliteness when he returned! Still, I had to inform him that the shop no longer sold elaborate bouquets with foliage and delicate paper wrapping, but a simple one was possible. His face fell, brows crumpling in disappointment. Clearly, he had his heart set on a grand, ornate bouquet. “Well, I s’pose simple will do then,” he mumbled with a tinge of sadness. I patted Clark on the back, waving him over to the fridge. “How about red roses?” They were the favourite choice and symbol for lovers. He shook his head, adding that roses were too generic. “What about pink tulips?” They were an excellent choice for conveying happiness and affection. He tilted his head back, thinking about it, concluding that tulips did not quite capture the essence he was looking for either. “What do you want to say?” My question threw Clark off as he exclaimed loudly that he did not know, going on a tangent about his feelings for the woman and how bad he felt about taking her for granted after so many years together. I felt a little embarrassed, remembering what I thought earlier. A man who considers this much could not be the flower thief. He pushed against the glass with his hands, and I looked outside the window at the petunias until my mouth twitched. “Might hyacinths work?” They were uncommon for bouquets with a strong, sweet fragrance and an intense purple hue. Clark squinted his eyes at the hyacinths behind the glass, but I could not tell if it was out of an internal turmoil or an attempt to find what was special about it. I took out a bulb of hyacinth, the bottom already wrapped in a small bag with water. He examined it before looking out the window, his eyes too called by the petunias and back down to the perennial. Then, his eyes were clear. He left the store holding a bouquet wrapped in brown paper and twine. A singular leaf hung out of the packaging, but he insisted that it was perfect the way it was. He also bought a card, writing a short message on it, and I felt I already knew what it was. Ironically, business at the florist was not all flowery. It was surprisingly simple when you got to the root. Customers often had the same requests, though they varied in the details — birthdays, graduations, weddings, and celebrations were the light parts of life; conversely, apologies and funerals were dark in the middle and end of it. I never saw what was written on the blank cards and was taught to speculate their tales. Sharing them was the best part as I whispered with my wife intimately behind the counter, our wonderful and playful stories curated just for the other. Behind the counter, I gazed out the front window. My flowers were still on display as they were before. A strong gust of wind must have swept through the street as the door opened slightly with a gentle ring, closing again after a few seconds. It was most definitely an unusual moment, but what happened after was even more perplexing. I turned my attention back inside, reaching under the counter for a cleaning rag, when I heard the pots outside break and the water spill from the containers. Startled, my head bumped against the underside of the countertop, and I twice swore —first a string of profanities that would make sunflowers face away from the sun, then second ironically to God that I would catch the damn thief. I whipped my head to face the window, expecting to see the damage, but there was nothing, not a blossom in sight. Where were my flowers? Someone had stolen all of my flowers.