Flowerman

A Short Story by Rebecca Klassen

Photo by Kristine Cinate on Unsplash

Michelle liked Wade because he barely spoke to her. The rest of the team never left her alone. Chelle, I’ve got the supplier on the line; can I put them through to you? Chelle, management want the figures; have you got them? Chelle, I can’t make that meeting; it’s my kid’s nativity. Someone was always striding across the office to her desk. Wade spoke so little that Michelle couldn’t recall his voice. Even though he was quiet at the corner desk, he wasn’t rude or anti-social. His bald head popped up whenever someone had something to say, and he listened. He chipped in for birthday cakes, smiled and laughed at Stuart’s jokes when Stuart needed attention. When Wade had spotted Michelle and Stuart interlocked in her Audi in the car park, he’d looked away and kept walking. She knew he hadn’t said anything to anyone; the wildfire would’ve burned her by now.

So, when Wade knocked on the disabled toilet door when he heard her hyperventilating into a sanitary disposal bag, she let him in. He locked the door, slid down the wall onto the tacky floor next to her and took out his phone. On each inhale, she could smell his subtle aftershave through the bag. Most people would’ve asked if she was okay, even though she clearly wasn’t. Instead, Wade held his phone between them and opened the photos app.

‘This is a blue poppy. Bet you didn’t think you could get blue ones. I like them because there’s something special about growing something blue. There are no naturally blue foods. Even blueberries are actually purple.’

Michelle looked at the flower on Wade’s phone, then looked at Wade, the bag crinkling as it inflated and deflated with her desperate breaths. Flowers? Now? This guy was her age, but he sounded like some old prat off a gardening programme.

‘You’ve probably heard of this one,’ he continued, swiping to the next photo. ‘Bird of paradise. Hard to grow here. They like it hot. There’s something unimaginative about naming something after what it looks like. I’d love to see one, though, wouldn’t you?’

He flicked to the next photo, not expecting her to answer. His voice felt stable, each syllable a raft. Michelle clung to each one, the bag still pressed to her face, waiting for him to say more.  

‘Amethyst in snow. I can see why they’ve called it that because of the colours, but if you’re naming the bird of paradise because of its shape, this flower should be called horn burst. Look at all those little trumpet petals bursting into bloom. Just gorgeous.’

The bag around Michelle’s mouth wrinkled gently now. She felt light-headed and hungry. When had she last felt hungry rather than sick with anxiety? Wade swiped again.

‘A daisy, but you know that one. Whenever there’s a patch of them on my lawn, I mow around them, not just for the bees. If you asked a little kid to draw a flower, they’d draw a daisy. No leaves, no complicated shapes, and their petals are the colour of art paper. It’s the most baseline flower, like the mothership of all flowers. Not a weed, in my eyes.’

Michelle removed the bag from her mouth, balled it up, and wiped her eyes. ‘I’m pretty sure Stuart is using me for a raise. I tried to get him one, but management said he’s…undeserving.’ She suppressed the dread with a deep breath. ‘I want to be taken seriously here. If there’s suggestion that I’m with the company clown…’

Wade put away his phone. ‘I take you seriously.’

Michelle looked at the balled-up bag in her hands and her high heels askew next to the toilet with an exasperated laugh. Wade smiled, but he didn’t laugh.

‘If you’re worried, just think about flowers. Think about them growing, swaying in the breeze, bees landing on them.’

 Michelle hadn’t expected Wade’s advice to be so impractical. He’d never come across as a hippy, though, he’d never come across as anyone. The personal paraphernalia on his desk was minimal and impersonal: a poster of a kitten dangling by one paw from a washing line below the line Hang in There, and a football mug with a matching coaster, though she couldn’t visualize Wade bellowing on the terraces. Ultimately, it didn’t matter to Michelle who Wade was as long as he kept his mouth shut about things with Stuart.

Wade got up, helped Michelle to her feet, and poked his head out the door before slipping out.

Michelle knew dumping someone by text was cowardly, but she didn’t trust herself not to lose her cool in person. If they were face-to-face, she’d tell Stuart he was a user, which wouldn’t help keep their work relationship civil. Texting was measured. She could take her words back before pressing send.

Sorry, but I think we should just be friends. Let’s keep things professional.

She added a smiley emoji and a kiss. Both pained her.

When Michelle got back to her desk, she got a reply from Stuart. She could see him in front of his screen, his expression giving no clues.  

Some of the things you’ve emailed me haven’t been very professional. In fact, they’ve been a bit naughty. They wouldn’t make you look good.

Sweat pricked her armpits and beaded under her fringe. Her hands felt weak as she got up, went to Stuart’s desk, and knelt beside him.

‘Don’t try to blackmail me,’ she whispered.  

Stuart swivelled in his chair and leant close, his breath hot in her burning face. ‘Every flirty email, every dirty text you’ve sent me will all come out unless you get me that raise.’ His voice felt like claws down her back.

Michelle stood, hoping to open her despairing lungs. She shoved her shaking hands in her blazer pockets and gasped for air. No, not again. Not now.

She looked over at Wade’s shiny head, down as he worked in his cubicle. She tried to remember the flowers he’d shown her. The bird of paradise, its petals spreading, and the flower taking off into the sky.

But her shoulders were still knotted to her neck, and the frying smells wafting from the staff canteen made bile rise in her throat. Maybe the flower stuff had worked earlier because of Wade’s soothing words. She looked over at him, trying to recall his voice. Then she noticed something on Wade’s head under the fluorescent office lights. Something small.

‘Anything else, boss?’ Stuart said loudly.

Michelle looked at Wade’s head a second longer, unable to decipher what it was but feeling a touch calmer, taking control of her body.

‘No, nothing,’ Michelle said, walking away.

Later that afternoon, Michelle went over to Wade’s corner desk. She would just thank him for his help and discretion the other day in the disabled toilet, then leave. She promised herself she wouldn’t stare.

‘Wade, sorry to bother you…’

She glanced at the top of his head. It was a tiny green shoot protruding from his crown.

He turned from his screen. ‘It’s no bother. What’s up?’

He’d seen her looking. Michelle blushed and focused on his brown eyes, beard and long lashes.

‘I just wanted to say thank you for the other day. I don’t usually get myself in a state.’

‘I know. Things just get a bit much sometimes.’

She wanted to burst into tears, to curl up in his lap like a child and hear more about flowers.

‘Thank you,’ she said again, catching one last look at the shoot before heading off.

Each day, the shoot grew. She wondered if it itched. He’ll cut it soon or wear a hat, Michelle thought, but Wade did neither. She expected emails from the rest of the staff: what the hell is going on with Wade’s head? Did I miss Funny Hat Day or something? They didn’t come. She wanted to grab one of her colleagues and ask what they thought was going on with him, but what if they didn’t see it? People wouldn’t know she was going mad if she didn’t show it.

In a couple of weeks, there were more shoots. Buds pushed towards the office ceiling, and little leaves sprouted from stalks. Once, Michelle followed Wade to the canteen and waited behind him at the jacket potato counter, hardly daring to breathe as she leant in, the plants’ earthy, fresh scent overpowering his aftershave.

There was no way they were stuck on. Stalks had pushed through his scalp, raised wiggly root trails visible beneath his skin. One of the buds had started to open, revealing slivers of cobalt. Michelle remembered the blue poppy. Wade moved closer to the serving hatch to tong a potato, and Michelle headed back to her desk. Stuart passed her in the corridor. His gaze stroked her like a hand petting an animal against the direction of its fur.

‘Don’t forget my raise, Michelle.’ He wagged his finger with a smirk.

She’d tried, but management still wasn’t budging. They’d question her integrity if they found out she’d tried to get a raise for someone she’d been involved with.

Michelle pictured herself a few inches tall, standing on the sheen of Wade’s head, clutching the blue poppy stalk, reaching into the slit in the bud to touch the cocooned velvet petals. Stuart faded down the corridor.

The following week, when Stuart had given Michelle a deadline to secure his pay rise, Wade’s head had become a miniature meadow, visible over his cubicle. Several blue poppies had unfurled next to amethysts in snow. A bird of paradise was the centrepiece, and the number of daises meant his entire scalp was hidden. He’d opened the nearby window as far as he could, allowing access to a steady drift of insects. Michelle watched a bumblebee flit and settle, flit, and settle before leaving with its golden load.

Stuart’s instruction had been simple. 5pm today.

Michelle couldn’t go to HR and say he was blackmailing her. They’d want proof, and that would mean revealing their relationship. Future promotions would be off the table. Management was predominantly male. They would form damning thoughts about her, very different from those they’d think about Stuart. The anxiety started to choke Michelle as she searched for solutions.

She stood and focused on the bird of paradise, the chokehold loosening. Wade was on the phone. Whenever he nodded, so did the flower.

Little bird, maybe it will be okay.

Michelle got up, walked over to Wade, and stood beside him. She ran her fingertips over the soft petals. A ladybird crawled onto her knuckle before taking flight out the window. Wade hung up the phone and looked at Michelle.

‘Maybe it’ll be okay,’ she said.

‘It’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘Just think about flowers.’

---

Author: Rebecca Klassen is co-editor of The Phare. Her work has been featured in Mslexia, Shooter, Barren, Popshot, Ellipsis Zine, and Burningword. She has won the London Independent Story Prize, and was shortlisted for the Oxford Flash Prize and the Laurie Lee Prize. Her work has been performed on BBC Radio.

---

If you have enjoyed this story, please leave a note for the writer letting them know! And please consider making a donation to our free-to-read literary journal.