Loves Me, Loves Me Not

May 27th. 9am. I turned the OPEN sign around in my flower shop window with one hand and rubbed the $5 dollar bill in my pocket with my other.

Let's see how badly I do at this menial task this year.

Once a year, I put aside my cynical, anti-social, anti-human behavior long enough to fulfill my late grandmother's birthday tradition: giving away a $1 bill to a "special stranger." For my Grandma Josie it was always an easy task, given her naturally bubbly, heartfelt demeanor and perpetually blushing cheeks. She made friends everywhere, even--and this is true--with the employee renewing her license at the DMV. The story goes that on her nineteen birthday, she saw a man in line for the soup kitchen, hat pulled down over his face, on the verge of tears. On a whim, Josie pulled out a $1 bill she had saved in her purse and gave it to him with a smile. This bittersweet meet-cute led them to get married before her twentieth birthday, and my Grandma Jo and Grandpa Todd were married up to her death six years ago. She encouraged me to take on the annual act of kindness in an effort to instill in me a love for giving, but I suspected she secretly hoped I'd find my future husband the same way too.

The only problem--I hate people. Apart from Grandma Jo, who's gone now. That's why I opened a flower shop; I'd much rather talk to plants than people. Chatting with strangers and putting myself out there wasn't something that came naturally to me. Every May 27th I'd try--really try--to make myself available to help that "special stranger." I'd wander the streets of New York City attempting to make eye contact with pedestrians or look in restaurant windows in search of some lonely traveler eating alone. But inevitably, I'd chicken out and end the night handing the $1 to a drunk person laying down in a subway station who'd hiss at me in reply.

This year would be only more complicated now that I had the flower shop to monitor until I closed at 6pm. Plus, it didn't seem to be a good business model if a customer came in the store and I paid them.

DING. My little doorbell jingled, announcing an incoming customer. He was a younger guy, the basic Gap button-down and khaki type whose wide-eyed expression looked like he had never seen flowers before. I managed to smile at him from behind the counter.

"Need help?" I asked.

"I'm just looking," He said at first, then after a moment of staring at the bouquet varieties turned back and said, "Uh, actually yeah. What's a good, like, make-up flower? I'm doing the apology thing and don't think roses are the way to go. Right?"

I came around the counter and pointed at my white lilies.

"I'd go with these. They're less in-your-face. Plus, lilies represent humility."

The guy gave a single chuckle. "Nice. That's it then."

I scooped up the bouquet and led him to the counter to cash him out.

Could he be a contender for my $1?

The need for apology flowers suggested no. Whatever he had done it was probably to someone he loved, and that was his own problem.

I finished the transaction and handed him the receipt.

"Good luck," I offered.

Next contender of the day came soon after, strutting through the door so forcefully my little bell nearly got knocked off its hinge.

"I need help." He declared right away. I had my back turned at the time, and when my eyes met his I could tell it was going to be trouble. He was a brutish man with a fuzzy goatee. He immediately drank me in like he was pounding a six pack of beer.

Ah jeez. A flirt.

"I can help." I said flatly.

"'I need some flowers. Pretty ones...for...my mom." He added, and I couldn't stop one eyebrow from going up suspiciously.

"OK, what color does she like?"

"Uh. Shoot. I dunno. You stumped me."

"OK...what's she like then? Big personality? Or a bit modest?"

His facial expression suggested I stumped him again.

"You know what, tell me what you would want from a guy. What's your favorite flower?" He pivoted. I snorted.

"From my hypothetical son? Well, I like marigolds best."

I should have lied, but I blurted it out. I do love them best of all, those little fat balls of sun.

"Marigolds it is then." He smiled wide.

At the counter, he tried making more small talk as he stalled in pulling his credit card out of his wallet.

"Pretty girl like you run this shop all by yourself?"

"Amazing, isn't it?"

"I see the shop closes at 6. That when you get off?"

I avoided eye contact by staring down at him fiddling with his card. It was then that I realized he had a wedding ring on his finger.

Maybe I should pay him the $1 to promise me he'll never come back.

"Hope your mom likes the flowers." I said, eyeballing his hand. He shoved it deep in his pocket and grabbed the bouquet.

"Thanks..." He murmured and hurried out, slamming the door behind him.

The rest of the day went about the same. Perfectly nice customers meandered in and out, but I still couldn't part with the bill in my pocket. Maybe I was a chicken. Maybe I just couldn't see the world the way my grandmother could.

At 5:50pm, right as I was finished closing down for the day, the bell rang one more time.

In my store stood a lanky woman, hip popped to one side to support the weight of a massive flower box she was holding. A sun straw hat on her head partially blocked her face from view.

"Can I help you?" I offered. Her head tilted up and I got to see her bright face raise into view like a sunrise.

"Does this box come for your store? Would these flowers have been sold by you?" She asked.

I looked at the red velvet box. Not my style.

"No, I'm sorry. I don't recognize it."

"Dang it," she said. "I've been going from shop to shop all day trying to figure out where this dude bought this for me."

"Do you not like flowers?" I asked.

"No, no. They're beautiful. I just feel guilty keeping them. I told him I was interested...not my type, to say the least...but he insisted I take them. He clearly wasn't going to leave until I accepted them but...it just doesn't feel right."

She opened the box to show me the bouquet. Roses. Very flashy. I wrinkled my nose at the sight of them playfully. She laughed.

"Well..." I started, not knowing where I was going, "I don't recognize where the box comes from. But I'll buy it off you so you can call it a day."

This delighted her.

"Really? I'm not looking to make a profit or anything."

My hand dove in my pocket and suddenly there I was, offering the $1 bill.

"How's $1 then?"

"Deal!"

She took the bill gratefully and I had never been so blissfully eager for another person to have something that was once mine. As she passed off the box, our hands touched.

"What's your name?" She asked me.

"Jo. What's yours?"

"Marigold."