High Violet

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When working in a flower shop, one essentially meets three types of people:

You've got your Hallmark Channel grandmas -- the Martha Stewart wannabes of the world -- who'll come in and select the most obnoxiously priced white orchids that, really, they could've just gone to the Hobby Lobby half a block away and gotten for considerably cheaper. Sure, they would've been made of plastic, but would they honestly be able to tell the difference? Most certainly not -- not when they're dense enough to ask florists where the 'craft supplies' are, despite an establishment being marked explicitly as a floral arrangements business, any morsel of regret absent in their tone. They'll also pinch whoever's working the counter's cheek and ask them unnecessarily invasive questions about their love lives, maybe throw in a 'any little ones on the way?' if they're feeling particularly spicy that day.

Then, there's the hopeless idiots, trying in vain to buy flowers for their boyfriends and girlfriends who have no idea that roses typically cost more than $2.50 a dozen. The worst of this batch, though, comes in the form of brick-headed straight men and their horrifyingly loud brides-to-be. No amount of training or work field experience can make one accustomed to the shrill cackles and foot stomping that comes with bridezillas and their goons. It makes not slitting your throat with a shard of vase crystal that much harder as you hand them their bouquets, the most painful of forced smiles stretched over your gritted teeth.

The third -- and final -- client is the CEO. There isn't much to say about them, other than that they're hardly ever seen in the actual store building, and when they are, they're wearing some clunky bluetooth headset from 2006 that makes them look like a bad Men In Black cosplayer. They order from the same bunch of boring lilies and artificially-dyed daffodils every time, and it makes the automatic exchange feel even more hollow and impersonal than it already is.

It's when preparing said gloomy baskets that Kim Taehyung notices the guy standing in front of him. He doesn't match any of those profiles.

Taehyung's chunky, caterpillar eyebrows furrow as he properly analyzes the almost glowing specimen before him. The guy's holding one of the shop's potted fragrant gardenia bundles, shifting it from one hand to the other as he sweeps his orange-y brown hair out of his eyes. (His big, practically-black, Bambi-esque eyes, that is.) His nose is red, and Taehyung thinks he might be holding back a snot river with the way hes rubbing at it, which is gross, but he is certainly not a bride, not a grandmother and not a businessman.

Taehyung is intrigued.

"Have an easy time finding everything?" Taehyung inquires, putting on his best professional face. The man nods slowly, accentuating the way he hands the pot over to Taehyung with a loud sniffle. Definitely holding back a snot river, Taehyung notes.

Taehyung scans the bottom of the pottery, carefully, with his depressingly-outdated point of purchase equipment. He has to whack the gun against the counter a couple of times before it stops reading the flowers as 'clearance daisies'. Really, his father is to blame for the 80's-esque environment of the whole place. Or, moreso, Taehyung's own laziness, paired exquisitely with his lack of funds like an aged cheese to a fine wine.

"Sorry about that, angel," Taehyung adds casually as he slides The Guy his debit card back. Fuck, wait, he didn't mean to say that.

Well, Taehyung thinks as his customer fumbles with his wallet, visibly uncomfortable at his accidental advance. Guess I'll die.

Taehyung hears a mumble from somewhere under the leaves of the decorative shrub. "It's fine. Thank you."

And then he smiles, and Taehyung learns that the sun looks really, really young to be 4.5 billion years old.