There used to be a flower shop at the end of my street.
It was a wonderful shop, glowing in love and dewed in beauty—bricks engraved with time, precious in antique but still youthful in attraction.
Every Friday, once the sun had giggled itself to sleep and the stars had danced along the deep blue, the doors would open.
Customers would pile in, ready to see all of the fluorescent hues of the bouquets; however, the lights were never turned on.
People often complained that they couldn’t see the flowers in full beauty because the sun was not there to emphasise their vibrancy.
“You can’t buy a flower if its beauty is a question and not just a factor of awe.”
They pleaded with her to lighten the room, even bought her candles and lampshades, but the young owner would not listen.
So, it was decided that you had to buy off of the scent.
There were three flowers in particular which people declared beautiful:
The first one was placed gently on the window shelves. This flower was imbued with fine radiance, petals richly scented with youth and innocent curiosity, and leaves coated in a mature and sensible font. Most of the time, people only came to buy this flower simply because the other flowers could not compare. The scent was faint enough for it to be personal but strong enough so everyone would think you had the best.
There were other flowers they could buy, too, but most were happy with just that.
The second flower was on the highest shelf of the tallest unit, laced with the scent of brilliance and cleverness, like the smell of an ancient library or the satisfaction of a high score. There were a few more subtle scents of professionalism and motivation, though way too shy for them to truly count. Many people bought this flower as it made them feel bravely clever, as though Einstein himself would shy at their presence, quaking at the mere mention of brainy consciousness. The scent was moulded to perfection, so it would be silly to compare.
There were still other flowers they could buy, too, but many were happy with just that.
The final flower was in the centre of the room, and this was believed to be so because it held a gorgeousness that no other flower could even begin to dream of; almost everyone adored this flower. The petals were married to the scent of every trait a flower should have. Painted in the aroma of beauty, whilst also hugged in brains, fluorescent in sweet florals while possessive of rough spices. Engraved in wrinkles of a happy lifetime, whilst fresh with smooth and serenity skin. People would come to stare, and men would buy dozens, women would take notes on the atmosphere, and children would daydream of the portrait in which the flower should hang.
There were other flowers they could buy, too, but everyone was happy with that.
It was on the day the owner had a change of heart that so followed the rest of the town because, for the first time in history, the shop doors were open just before noon.
At first, people did not want to enter, scared of what they might see. No one had ever known the outlines of each flower, and now the entire sketch was on show.
When people finally braved their way inside the cottage, the flowers had all been moved around. There was no shelf on the window, no unit by the door—just rows and rows of pretty flowers smiling joyously at the curious eyes ahead.
People stopped smelling the scents before they bought, just simply choosing the prettiest flower that they could find; this time, there were other flowers they could buy too, and they did—many flowers, anyone that was deemed good enough to brag about.
For the rest of the day, the shop was packed with aggressive snatching and ignorant pushing. Everyone was too focused on the chance to have the perfect flower to notice the other people around.
It was when the sun had decided to wander off into the deep blue that the shop was still again.
Empty, solidified in fear and cruel treatment.
Well, almost.
There were just three vases still patient,
The one from the window shelves,
The one from the unit,
And the one too beautiful to be compared.