Charlotte
Every early morning just before the sun comes up on a little corner beside the bustling streets of New Orleans, a fairly old man opens up his Beignet shop where he makes his famous version of the butter-based pastry. He opens the large window to let air in and he starts sifting his flour and kneading his dough fresh to be ready for the mid-morning rush.
He was a simple man with no hair on the top of his head but with withering gray hair on his chin. He usually wore a blue cardigan and gray pants. Today started out no different from the others, except before he could put the beignets in the fryer, he heard a loud knock and saw the hairdresser from next door looking as suspicious as ever. She was friends with his wife so he had to be nice to her, but boy did she really get on his nerves. He had to help her change a light bulb because “its energy didn’t match the room.” When he started heading back, he wanted to start making his beignets as soon as possible since it was already an hour later than usual, so he had to work extra fast to start selling them to hungry customers throughout the day.
However, when the man came back he did not start making his beignets right away, for he saw a bouquet of bright yellow flowers sitting on the windowsill. This was quite mysterious for he was sure his shop was locked when he left and he had never gotten flowers before. Who had felt he was so worthy? It was unusual for a man, much less a man of his age, to get flowers at all, so who sent them and why to him? He was too old for secret admirers so what else could it be? As he inspected the fresh bouquet, he noticed a red ribbon surrounding the stems. It read “Jackson Square Garden”. The flowers must’ve come from the florist in Jackson Square Garden. He thought that was an interesting place especially since most people thought it was a tourist trap. He decided to ignore the ribbon and instead put the flowers in a vase for his customers to enjoy. His first priority was never himself, it was always his customers or his family, so he thought it no bother to see where it led and he continued on with his day. He went back to kneading dough and sifting flour to make his delicious Beignets. But as he felt his hand rolling the dough out, his mind couldn’t help but wander. Where did this lead? Could he figure out where the flowers came from? He did what any normal man would do and asked his wife. She said he should just appreciate the flowers instead of looking into them which he thought was weird since usually she loved to get to the bottom of things. It didn't matter; he didn’t want to lose his work day streak and the line was starting to form outside already.
He went back to sifting his flour, kneading his dough and listening to the beignets sizzle in the fryer. Sift, knead, sizzle. Sift, knead, sizzle. Sift, knead, sizzle. But it made no difference to busy himself because all he thought about was the mystery person delivering these flowers. How did they get in when he was helping the hairdresser? Why did they choose him to deliver the flowers to? It couldn’t have been his wife, she was bed-ridden with pneumonia and thought flowers were a waste of time. His kids were away working and creating families of their own. He just couldn't figure out who sent the flowers. It could be a trap, some way to get him away from his shop where he was vulnerable. But he was an old man selling beignets -- he was not worth enough to capture. He wasn’t rich and he lived a simple life with no enemies. It was just him and his wife spending the last of their days together. His mind was wandering like a dog in a forest and he could not get any work done.
As the day went on he argued with himself. He would mutter to himself that he had to go check it out. It was ever so meaningful, but then again it was only one bouquet of flowers. How special could it be? It was silly how hard it was for him to make up his mind. The sun was now high in the sky, right at noon and he had still not made up his mind. People came and went drooling for his Beignets but he paid them no attention. It was not until a customer remarked at how stunningly the flowers complimented his shop that he made up his mind. It was like something clicked, and he knew who had delivered the flowers. He would go to Jackson Square and hope she was still there.
He locked up his shop and started making his way to the square. As he passed bright buildings he reminisced of the past and how meaningful the square was to him. He had always loved the aura in Jackson Square. The towering French cathedral, surrounded by luscious green grass and tall trees made it one of his favorite places in all of New Orleans. The other locals didn’t think much of it. They thought it was just a place for sightseers but it always held a place in his heart, as it was where he had met his beautiful wife. He could remember every detail of their meeting. He was a young man who just started out at the brand new factory in town. He was dirt poor and slugged along with the rest of the men to make their living. He was tired from the day and needed to find a nice spot to lounge. He found her under a giant oak tree starting to eat a juicy green apple. She noticed how tired he looked and asked if he wanted the apple. She was always so kind and caring and that’s what made their relationship so special to him. As he sat down, she remarked at how stunning he looked in his white shirt stained with soot from the factory. They laughed together while hiding from the heat. At the time, she was a struggling artist trying to make it through the streets of New Orleans who had found a nice place to rest under the shade of the trees, whistling her tune as the people walked by. She was now a distinguished retired piano player who had made her final performance at the last Mardi Gras.
After reminiscing about the past, he finally made it to the square and saw his lovely wife barely standing up straight clutching bright yellow flowers just in front of the fountain. He was surprised to say the least, because he thought she was still in bed, but she must’ve arranged this for their 50th anniversary. The flowers were starting to wilt and he could tell that she had been there almost all day. Through all the years of knowing her she still looked as beautiful as when he met her. Though the luscious brown waves she once had were replaced with a thin gray bob and her body was slowly failing, she still had her beaming white smile and soft brown eyes that glimmered in the sunlight. She held the flowers out to him looking as happy as when he saw her standing at the altar 50 years ago. He took the flowers and gave her a peck on the cheek before wrapping his arms around her while listening to the faint sound of a jazz club warming in the distance. They started swaying with the music as best they could in her condition and while they danced, he asked her why she gave him the flowers and why in secret. She grinned and said:
“Everyone deserves a nice bright bouquet of flowers and I did not want your first ones to be at your funeral.”
“You could give me a hundred flowers until then because I’m not going anywhere anytime soon”
In the alcove of towering trees, they danced until their feet grew sore. For that night, they were not as old and frail as they were physically, but they were as young as how they felt in their hearts. Then in the pale light of the setting sun, they headed home -- past the stores closing up and past the jazz clubs opening. Back to their old pale blue house away from the busy streets of New Orleans.