Welcome to Gaia! ::

One of the few benefits to living in the flower shop was that he already kept it a bit on the warm side. The majority of his plants could not handle the winter's cold, and some changes had been made to the arrangement of the interior as a result. Lifeless merchandise was closer to the windows, while plants were moved more towards the center. They were more or less in the same overall sections, but it was an easy way to prevent disasters, should a window crack and let in the frosty air. To keep himself warm, Krishna was currently steeping tea and thinking about how much easier even this mundane activity would become soon enough.

At the start of the new year, he would be able to mov into an apartment again. He had already discussed it with his former landlady to go back to his normal arrangement - made easier due to the fact that for over a year he had kept up his payments to allow the bulk of his possessions to be stored there. Soon, he would have his life back to the level of comfort that he rightly deserved. No more washing his hair in the sink. No more sneaking out to rent cheap motels just to have a shower. A real kitchen. All he had to do was survive until January 1.

The jingling of a Christmas bell--Gwen's addition to the shop, which she had proudly stood on a stool to hang on the door--alerted him to the presence of a customer. The voice that called his name was familiar and made him move swiftly to the front. The last time this particular customer had been there, the order had been substantially profitable--but more importantly, it had been artistic, a genuine pleasure to design and to construct. Perhaps both would be true again during this visit.

So, his greeting to the light-haired youth was warmer than it might have been to a first time customer. "Quenton," he greeted with a quick smile. The florist set his steaming cup of tea down on the counter as he approached, clearing his hands and his mind for whatever it was that brought the customer back to him. "How may I help you today?"

No, Krishna did not ask for the meanings of the flowers now. As before, their symbolism stood out in his mind as clearly as their look. Crown vetch with it's light purple-pink flowers that reminded him of interlocking fingers - success to you. Vivid five-petaled nasturtium in orange, yellow, and red, their shield-shaped leaves with a star-streaked center standing strong - resignation. The blue bells the youth requested, the one bloom of the three the florist did not currently have, for gratitude.

A poetic, dare he say tragic, collection of meanings that pointed to a relationship cut short. If the flowers themselves had not told him, he would have seen it in the pained smile, the almost weighed-down feeling to the way Quenton spoke. A pity, given the promising way it had started... but Krishna was the first to know that not all saplings produced fruit.

"My condolences. There are a few options, beyond blue bells. Camellias or yellow lilies, which I have. A bouquet of roses in full bloom also works for gratitude but... in your case, may send the wrong message." Bouquets of full roses were also the favorite of congratulations and--more damning--intense romantic feelings. Krishna felt fairly certain that Quenton would not want to hint at either of those emotions.

The rainbow-haired man shrugged as he moved to retrieve his colored pencils and sketchbook. Flowers and plants were his constant companions, even in his youth. That was likely true for others as well, even if they did not stop to think how many occasions featured some sort of flora. Because the implied question deserved an answer--and because it was Quenton, an artistic sort like himself--he finally commented, "Yes, but similiar reasons. All indicate care - just different sorts."

The only jewelry visible when the florist removed his gloves was a wrist watch - simple, functional, nothing elaborate. Krishna pursed his lips as he pondered the design for this newest collaborative piece between the two of them. Quenton had supplied the color scheme and flora, as before, but now the rest was up to his own vision.

In the previous design, he had chosen a square base for stability and cleanliness. Today, circles seemed more appropriate. Circles were wholesome, forgiving, lacking of harsh edges. The camellia needed to be particularly highlighted for the most positive feelings to be evoked... his pencil sketched a perfectly shaped camellia in the very center, held aloft with a small platform that he would have to add inside of the glass vase he envisioned. Creamy white, as white as Quenton's hair, and thereby indicative of exactly from whom such feelings came.

From there, the rest of the design sprang, The lightly colored crown vetch to surround the purity of white - and around the base, yellow nasturtium and leaves to guard the memories that the two lovers had made together, however brief their union. From brighest to lightest, to better guide the eye. The florist pulled out the appropriate colored pencils and filled in the layers one by one. Finally, he handed the sketch over to his client for approval. "Acceptable?"

Amidst the greenery and flowers, there were few personal effects. As proud and preening a man as he was, Krishna was also largely private when it came to his personal life. Still... that was not to say that there was nothiing of potential interest to a curious onlooker. Particularly since this particular florist had been living outside of his shop for some time. In addition to some scattered towels and a cardboard box of toiletry essentials shoved under a table in the back, there were three picture frames set along the counter top.

The three frames were of varying ages and, although lined up neatly, were clearly recent additions to the counter. The first photo, in a frame of golden oak, was a ten year younger Krishna cutting the ribbon to open Padma's Bouquet. The second, more faded photograph sat in a metal frame with flaking gold paint and showed an attractive Indian woman with dusky, plum-colored hair and lilac bangs. The final frame was a sleek, black plastic and contained a standard family photograph. The same woman from the second photo, although older, was featured, along with three other individuals: (1) a broad-shouldered gentlemen, (2) a fourteen-year old Krishna (identifiable by his oil-slick hair), and (3) a two-year old boy with pastel rainbow hair.

Whenver he got the approval he sought, Krishna nodded. "Very well. I can have it delivered by tomorrow. Do you need anything else, Quenton?" It was a business question that might normally be asked, but the tilt of his head indicated the florist might mean something more. Even engaged as he had been in his sketching, it would be difficult to ignore the lingering glances the youth was leaving around the place. Perhaps the store simply held bad memories, being directly tied to his then freshly-seeded romance? Yet, if so, why come back for a second time? Krishna looked at him and waited. If his client needed nothing else, then all that remained was for a price to be named and paid.

It never mattered it Krishna did not know what to say. He said precious little as the norm; as a result, no one ever seemed to notice if he said nothing because he did not know what to say. His vanity and pride would never let him admit that he could not speak if he so chose on any topic, but the way he looked away from Quenton as he moved towards the cash register was a subtle hint to what he would describe in others as 'floundering.'

Why would it matter to his client, however artistic, whether or not he wore a ring? The florist was somewhat flattered in that perhaps it meant the youth was appreciating his natural beauty, but the thought of being a rebound from the recently wilting relationship was... disconcerting. Naturally, Krishna would be superior to whomever it was that had not appreciated Quenton's affections - but the Indian had been through enough relationships himself to know that, for some, anyone would be better than being alone.

Still, the statements seemed to deserve an answer. The florist entered the amount of the purchase into the register - 50.00, a bargain for such an arrangement, but some good fortune on his part could be spread to Quenton - and swiftly wrote out the reciept. He had Alexandre Evans's address on file from the previous delivery, so he saved time by leaving that section blank. As he wrote, he spoke, "Mind and heart are best aligned. Will return to that state, in time."

Krishna passed the reciept over to Quenton and added, almost as an after thought, "I wear no ring because I have yet to find he who feels the same. Those are pictures of my past, not my future."

The remainder of the transaction was... interesting. Krishna did what he did best: he listened. His repeat customer had a way of speaking not often heard - at least not in his experience - and it took a moment for him to unravel the words. When he did, the Indian still chose to maintain his silence. He did not disagree - he certainly considered himself both blessed with superiority and cursed with difficulty in finding those to fully recognize it. Yet, there was no need to give credence to the idea that he needed the luck or well wishes offered. A nod and a small smile was his only means of showing appreciation for the sentiment.

He took the card and swiped it through the credit card reader. He pressed the Enter key and waited for the tell-tale sound of a reciept exiting the printer. He tore the top copy off and handed it to the youth, a satisfied look crossing his face as he nodded, "Good. Take care, Quenton." Wth that, the florist took the store copy of the reciept from the printer and threw it into a nearby box where the daily reciepts were kept. he had an arrangement to begin.