Gemotions

The florist's delivery guy, a lanky youth with a perpetually vacant expression, had the audacity to stand there, waiting for a tip. "No card?" she snapped, the words sharp as broken glass. Her hands, usually deft at managing the complexities of her floral shop, clenched into fists. The blooms, a garish mix of reds and yellows, seemed to mock her. Who? Who would send these, anonymously? Her jaw tightened. The scent, once pleasant, now assaulted her nostrils, cloying and invasive. She slammed the door, the floral arrangement now a weapon in her increasingly forceful grasp.