Laura Harrier

To her, the man standing in the center of her flower shop resembled a brightly painted piñata.

She had the immediate sense that if she were to beat him open with a small bat, there would be nothing inside but strips of Spanish-language newspapers.

His pants were cornflower blue, set off by a white shirt so crisp she thought it might be plastic.

His skin was glazed.

"'Hello.'

The woman turned away and went back into the cooler to bring out another tall bucket of flowers.

They were plain purple asters, but her husband had convinced her to label them Monte Cassino so she could charge a dollar more a stem.

As she placed the bucket in its stand, she saw the man running a finger over the thick border of Queen Zan's lace she had included in the center display.

He looked to her like the kind of man who might run his finger under the waistband of her underwear while they were walking in public, as if it were a gift.

She had to revise her assessment of this man.

Looking at him again as he stood before her, bent forward slightly, hands in his pockets, he was not a piñata.

He was a Russian Easter egg.

Elaborate and shiny on the outside, but then on the inside, blown out and dangerously hollow.

She gets him to be like her in his mid-thirties.

The funeral then would be for his mother or his sister, perhaps.

It would be an exception, but perhaps it was for his wife.

Yes, he was definitely brittle like you are when the very thing you care for the most is plucked away.

I see.

I'm so sorry for your loss.

Did you have anything specific in mind?