Laura Harrier

They have some sort of paralyzing agent that animals can stand but people can't.

Some wackos make a drink with them to treat things like arthritis, but I certainly wouldn't.

She came around from behind the counter and sat down on the stool next to the man, amused that in all her work with flowers, she'd really never seen a blue as striking as the blue of the man's pants.

And really, good for him.

Your wife dies, but you pull it together.

You dress without apology.

And you go out and make sure you're the one who handles all the details.

Figure out the room, decides the time, and picks the flowers, and a slideshow?

Wow.

This man was doing great.

She wondered about her own husband, if it had been her that died.

Would he remake himself into an adult in support of their daughter?

Or would he just stay out there on his surfboard, floating by for Sunday dinners, his rough charm still in play but now undercut by a sour grief smell?

She had the sense, in fact, that this man in her store would likely even set up a foundation in his wife's name.

Something about adult literacy or maybe guide animals?

She could see him change into a smart gray suit, standing there among the roses and beach pee at the funeral.

The arrangements she herself was going to put together, and maybe it occurred to her, even donate in support of the charity.

and he would talk about the way he loved her for all the small things, like the way she would lose her bracelets, or how she could slice a lemon, and that she loved wheatgrass and was so kind, and that in the end, she taught him what it really meant to take care of someone else, and that he was going to miss her, but it would be okay.

Okay, yes, I think I've got it.

I think this would be lovely, I really do.