on the oilcloth beside my fingers.
“Get her the red one from Clara’s shop on Main Street,” he said.
“The booster club guidelines say red roses are required for the middle hitters,” I said.
Duane turned to the sink and turned on the brass faucet to wash the black polish off his hands.
“Then go buy the red one and do not stand there arguing about four dollars,” he said.
I drove back into town and pulled up to the curb in front of Miller’s Floral on Main Street.
A cold October wind was blowing off the harvested fields, rattling the metal frame of the store awning.
I smoothed down my maroon booster club sweatshirt before pushing open the heavy glass door.
The bell above the frame chimed as I stepped into the warm, humid air of the shop.
The air smelled of cut green stems, wet fern leaves, and
