I am almost always working. Though in this line of work, most days are not predictable. All except Valentine’s Day. I had just starting working for a florist because according to my mother, ‘summer must not be wasted’. And the job wasn’t really that deplorable. My boss was a good enough man, Mr Roberts, aging man with a strange affinity for yellow roses and purple orchids.
It was the night before V-Day and we were setting up plans on how to get things right. On that day especially, men wanted their things done right and in time, and women expected them to pay up and surprise. And we were the sneaky middlemen– passing off the flowers to wives, girlfriends, and to both for some eccentric fellows. We had received a landslide of orders, almost all for blood-red roses and heart-shaped boxes of chocolates. Mr Roberts loved this day more than anyone else. He got a great commission, and a chance to make his wife happy too from a business she always belittled.
We laid out the receipts on the table and sorted according to addresses, so that we could do the deliveries on time. I got a rather tough lot, but I wasn’t complaining. It might sound sad and pathetic, but I was working on V-Day, with a girl possibly lurking in the shadows, or a cat.
The next day started early and we were jumping from the moment it all started. I drove my mother’s car, (because I didn’t have one) and also because Mr Roberts had only one truck that the other guys were using. And also, since I was the little guy around, I probably had no chance of winning an argument.
A very short story about a delivery boy, and the emotions of Valentine's Day.
Read here: Despair For Delivery