Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
29/03/2022
VIENNA HADN'T MEANT to meet Amita Khan. Really, Vienna hadn't meant to meet anyone. She should have been in Australia, sitting at the table with her parents, knowing a familiar nameless boy was waiting for her by the fence. Her worries gone, her doubts futile. Instead, she had strolled into a florist shop in the middle of London after spotting the hiring sign resting against the purple petunias. Not knowing the name of that boy, and not really remembering him at all.
Amita had been chopping the stems off roses. Chopping, not snipping. She was holding half of a shear, the sharp metal edge continuously colliding roughly with the scarred chopping board beneath it. Vienna flinched when she walked through the open doorway, the loud sound almost rattling the leaves of the dense bouquets around her.
Vienna knew the kind of person Amita was as soon as she saw her. She looked like she wanted to be anywhere but there, with the half-shear gripped tightly in her fist. Curly hair clung to her forehead, almost straightening against her tan skin. But there was something about her - something intriguing, something hidden. An underlying desire to organise the plants. An underlying desire to create perfection.
Amita had hired Vienna on the spot. She knew it wasn't within her capabilities. She was younger than Vienna, only by a year, but it was clear she wasn't the owner. Luckily, the owner did accept Vienna's admission. The old man had looked so lost that Vienna was sure he wouldn't have noticed if she started working anyway.
Amita Khan was a party person. She was an everything-person, actually, but parties especially. On the 29th of March, her flat became the party she had been dreaming about for an eternity. Finally, Vienna wouldn't have to live vicariously through the plans Amita rambled about during their shifts. She could just go, and everything would align and it would all make sense. Her move to the UK, her terribly low wage, Reagan and everything about him. Had he gotten over his hiccup yet?
