The Florist


A florist – that’s what  I am. But there are times, when I feel little hesitant to reveal that identity and during such times I intelligently mask the florist part and call myself an entrepreneur. Technically, I’m both so there is no denying about that. Oh! please, don’t misunderstand me. I love my job and I’m passionate about flowers. But people somehow don’t get it. Being a male specie, they think I should be doing something manly.

I  hate going to family gatherings of any form – be it weddings, funerals or birthday parties. But being a florist I can’t avoid it. My business thrives from such events. Be it any occasion, here is a snippet of what I typically would encounter.

” Aunt 1: John, these decorations are breathtakingly beautiful.        

 Aunt 2:  It must be such a delight for his girlfriend to receive flowers everyday. Oh! dear look at him blushing like a peony. (Pun heavily intended)

Aunt 1: Don’t you know??? John doesn’t have a girl friend. He is a florist. Which girl would prefer a florist boy friend? Any girl would want a manly guy and not someone as delicate as a flower. 

Chorus : Hahahahaha”

I feel bad when I hear such jeers because flowers make me complete and strong. This is not something that started recently. It started from the time I can remember. I always wanted to be a florist. My mother loved flowers so my dad used to say and every Sunday I used to get different flowers to lay on her grave. I do that even now. Boys of my age at school wanted to be pilot, doctor, astronaut, president etc. I was the odd one out, who wanted to be a florist. Most of them did not become what they dreamed of. At least, give me the credit that I was man enough to follow my dreams. These arguments are always inside my head. When my friends pull my leg, i just give in.

Usually, the usual sneer and jeer starts with no girlfriend fact. Maybe if I can get a girl friend. Things would change. But that set me about thinking. Every girl wants a guy who is an Investment Banker,  a Doctor, a Scientist or a Footballer.  But let me tell you something. My business is doing well. I usually bag most of the decoration orders in and around the city. And all I need to do is  find a girl who loves flowers, who can understand what it is to spend time with flowers, to water them with tender affection and to nurture and to be nurtured in their lovely fragrance.

It was around the same time that I spotted her. I don’t know her name. Everyday, around evening after work, she stops in front of my shop and looks at the display I have kept in front of the shop. Maybe she wanted to buy something. As soon as I approached her she fled from the place. She had that tenderness in her eyes. Yes, she loved flowers. Maybe I should ask her for a cup of coffee. She is been coming to my shop almost daily for past two weeks. Why does she come? To check out the flowers or me? Since, I don’t have experience with  girls…I’m actually working on my opening lines.

It’s Thursday, I’ll ask her on a Friday and she might be free on Saturday, so she wont be able to turn it down. I was calculating that all along looking at her. I failed to notice a guy next to her. He asked her something and she just smiled. He called out to me and said pack these flowers for the charming lady here, pointing at a bunch of red roses. After the purchase, I saw them moving towards the coffee shop nearby.

All she wanted was flowers…I could have offered her a garden. Now, I know. I’m waiting for the next girl who loves flowers.


This entry was posted in Stories and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to The Florist

  1. kish says:

    This is just so sweet.

  2. pamela360 says:

    Reblogged this on pamela360 and commented:
    I admire this. Thumbs up

  3. pamela360 says:

    I like this. Thumbs up moody

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s