Second Chances

It Doesn't Really Feel Like Christmas At All.

Late Saturday night, to halt the relentless barrage of phone calls and texts, Maddy blocked George's number. She lay in bed, her body fighting a battle for dominance between anger and heartbreak. Shortly after 4 AM, exhausted and emotionally drained, she fell into a restless slumber.

Four hours later, she was awakened by an annoying buzzing. She stumbled, drunk with sleep to the intercom. "You got the wrong apartment," she said.

"Madison Taylor?"

"Who wants to know?"

"Carmine's Floral Shop."

"Are you serious?"

"Please unlock the door. It's freezing out here."

She buzzed the delivery guy into her apartment building, opened her door, then leaned against the doorframe waiting for him to climb the eight flights.

Ten minutes later, a breathless voice from the staircase wheezed, "Holy shit." A red-faced young man in a flannel shirt appeared, climbing the final flight. "No eleva..." He sucked air. "No elevator in this building?"

She shook her head. "Obviously. It's a walk-up."

"Obviously." He nodded, clutching his chest.

"Pretty early in the morning for deliveries isn't it?" she said, arms crossed tightly. "Especially on a Sunday."

He wiped the perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve. "Special delivery." He handed her three long white boxes wrapped in red and gold bows.

"Thanks," she replied insincerely and withdrew into her apartment, slamming the door. She tossed the boxes onto her couch, then pulled the ribbon from the first box.

Inside, two dozen long stem red roses were wrapped in holiday tissue. She ripped open the card. Inside was penned:

Hold these petals to your lips and think of me. All my love, George.

Infuriated, she gathered the boxes and dropped them loudly into the trash can in her kitchen.

There was no point in going back to bed. She was too upset to sleep. In fact, she was pissed off. She wriggled into a pair of sweatpants, pulled a hoodie over her head, then stuffed her arms into her parka.

........

Thirty minutes later, she stood at the register inside Michelangelo's Floral. An elderly woman with permed, gray hair carried a withered, brown potted cactus to the counter. Her name tag read: Imelda.

"We don't get much call for tropical plants or cacti during the holidays," Imelda said apologetically. "This one's actually pretty dried out and not the most attractive potted plant–"

"I'll take it," Maddy said sharply.

"It's not much to look at," Imelda slowly turned the pot. "In fact, it might be dead."

"You said you could deliver it today, right?" Maddy drummed her fingernails on the counter.

"Sure, we could do that. Why don't you look around at some of the other things we have on display? We have some absolutely lovely fresh wreaths, holiday bouquets, and poinsettias."

Maddy shook her head. "Do you have a card?"

"A card?"

"A card to go with the plant."

"Sure, sure. We got cards," said Imelda. She made one last sales pitch. "We have so many pretty potted plants here to choose from. Are you sure you don't want–"

"Nope. This one's perfect."

Imelda sighed. "Okey-dokey. So what would you like me to write in the card?"