The Colours in the Room

I cried the whole drive from the hospital to the florist. The GPS kept giving me directions at the last second, and I kept missing turns. Everything around me was strangely familiar, but I didn’t know how to use the landmarks I kept passing as a guide. I screamed in frustration a couple of times. I mistakenly drove in the right lane, only to find myself stuck behind someone waiting to turn.

“Again? How many times can this happen in a day?”

I smacked the steering wheel handles hard. I planned my escape, gently reversing back until I could clear the car in front. A steady stream of vehicles zoomed past me as I waited my turn. Finally, the car in front of me was able to turn and, centering the steering wheel, I drove forward instead.

Parking was easy enough. No weird backstreets or signage to interpret. The car behind me was the same make as mine, in a metallic cerulean instead of white. It was dent-free. I walked around my car to the footpath, passing the scratch and depression of the rear left-hand door.

Alexandria is a wind-trap. Or Green Square. Or Beaconsfield. Wherever the hell I was, the buildings cast long shadows on one side and commanded a demonic gust, spinning in all directions. My hair was still pulled back in a tight pony-tail from the appointment, wet with sweat. I shivered a little, noticing that most of the people around me were in big jackets and jeans, or business attire.

It was a beautiful Friday afternoon. When the wind eased, out of the shade and on the sidewalk, the day shimmered in that clear way only cool, low-humidity forecasts can summon. The streaks of tears dried instantly. I wore no makeup on that morning, but I hoped the sunscreen I put on managed to survive. I caught my reflection in a boutique shopfront. I couldn’t see the band-aids, but maybe that was a good thing. My face was starting to hurt from the crying. Combined with my tan, the Adidas jacket’s fluorescent pink and yellow accents gave me a cheery glow.

I finally checked Google Maps again, realising I must have walked past the florist. It was a block back. I turned around. The dating podcast in my ears numbed any waning frustration from the day. I checked Messenger again: still no reply. I knew she would be happy with my choice regardless.

This time, I stopped at the door of the florist. The windows were slightly tinted, perhaps to combat the harsh morning sun. I could see the outlines of huge native arrangements. A melody rang twice as I opened the door. A slightly short, Asian woman around my age greeted me. Her voice carried a soft assertion and her smile was kind. I willed my eyes not to well.

I told her I had called earlier asking about the dried flower arrangements. They’d had a banner on their website saying they had sold out, but I learned they only meant of fresh bouquets.

“Ah, yes. Well, we have some pre-arranged, but most people pick a couple colours and I make them an individual arrangement.”

I nodded, looking around the room. Everything was slightly muted. The drying process had the effect of an old photograph: in high-definition, with some aspect of it was just out of reach. I admired them. Dried flowers lasted up to three years, when they weren’t exposed to direct sunlight for more than five hours a day. I notoriously had plant after plant die in my care, so it was a relief to know I had a low bar to hit.

I spotted a full-length mirror, tilted rather than hung against the wall. I could see the band-aids now. Four on each calf, keeping a secret from me and the medical professionals I had seen thus far. There was some definition today. Maybe I hadn’t had the symptoms come on. My calves were numb when I had to run. Maybe the doctor was wrong and I would have to get tested again.

“Have you picked a colour?”

“Um, I think neutrals as a base. And this blue one is really pretty.”

They were hydrangeas. It would mean the arrangement would cost about thirty dollars extra. I accepted happily. She deserved the best.

As if she had known I had chosen a colour for her, a reply popped up on my phone:

“Pink/white I guess”

I told the florist the update and she tittered, comparing pinks with the neutral florets she had already chosen. Unusual she said, but they worked together. She replaced the blue hydrangeas with pink, and soon her mastery had come together.

“Could I take the blue one too actually? Separate. For me.” Of course, she said, smiling. Maybe she could tell I had been hurting, or maybe she existed in that way that is inherently kind.

With her birthday present and my own gift bundled in my arms, I stepped back onto the footpath. The gales pushed the bouquets into my face. I walked carefully, the flowers swaying under my gentle grip. They reminded me of baby birds wanting to take flight, but with wings too small to take them higher than just a hop off the ground. The edges of my mouth tugged outwards, just a little.

It really was warm in the sun.