2 minute read
HIBISCUS by Kris Faatz
HIBISCUS by Kris Faatz
The boy at the garden shop could be the son Jeannie doesn’t have. His lean build and serious eyes hint at her own reflection. Most of all, his smile shields him like sepals around a furled bloom. Jeannie’s job has never demanded much except the wits to count out customers’ change, but she knows how it feels to furl her own colors and hide them in the dark: so he matters to her.
He’s not really a boy—he’s a manager, technically her boss—and the two of them aren’t friends. Workdays on the crowded sales floor, they trade a scatter of words. How’s it going? Can’t complain. His job seems like a suit of armor, its overlapped plates dragging at his young shoulders. Now and then, a chink between them lets through a flare of vibrance, there and gone.
She sends the words she can’t say through the air. Are you okay? Is this life right for you? Absurd to think he’d tell her, or show her what he shows no one. She’s a stranger. Each day, though, she does something rare for her: she holds up and waves a corner of her own colors, not caring who else might see.
One afternoon, he passes her station behind a straggle of customers. Rushed as always, needed somewhere.
“Jeannie.” He holds something out on his palm. “This is for you.”
She takes it, aware that it’s soft against her fingertips, but her eyes are on his face. His smile, this time, is a visor lifted. One glimpse at the light behind; then he’s gone.
The gift in her hand is a single hibiscus bloom, flame-orange petals with a wine-red heart. The colors reach out for her.
Thank you. She sends the words to him on the air. I see you.
