- One pink peony, please.

      The warm September sun was shining through the window. The bell above the door rang welcomingly. I stuck my head out of the closet that served as a refrigerator and a storage room for flowers to greet the visitor. She was standing at the threshold of the store: freckled, thin, in sweatpants, an oversized T-shirt and a massive backpack on one shoulder. She looked around the room with a bored look and tucked a strand of short and untidily cut, fiery red hair behind her ear. A satisfied smile spread across my face. Monday, it turns out, is not such a bad day.       “No way,” stretching out the words, I languidly floated out from behind the corner and stood behind the counter, leaning my elbows on it, “what the hell brought you here, Miss Emma?”       Emma rolled her eyes.       “I need peonies. Pink. One,” she said crisply, approaching the counter.       “Nobody gives you flowers, so you decided to buy them yourself?” I asked with feigned sympathy, stomping toward a vase of pastel pink peonies.       “It doesn’t concern you,” Emma snapped, crossing her arms over her chest, “do you have to be such a jerk all the time?”       “It doesn’t concern you,” I mimicked, taking out a flower. Emma went to the same school as me, but was two years younger. There wasn’t a single person in our school who didn’t know her — red hair, good-natured personality, and the fact that she was from a “dysfunctional” family made Emma a good advertisement. Many teachers and some students sincerely loved and pitied her; some simply took advantage of Emma’s kindness, or ignored her. Well, like most seniors, I was one of those who openly made fun of her and suggested “burning the witch.” It’s not that I didn’t like Emma: she just didn’t fit into the everyday life of our provincial school, so she was getting hit.       I went back behind the counter, carefully wrapped the peony in brownish paper, and handed it to Emma.       “That’ll be four and a half dollars,” I announced importantly, watching her take out her wallet and hand me the money.       “Thank you,” Emma nods briefly, takes the change, and heads for the door.       She came again on Friday — right after school. Emma was still wearing her school uniform and bag. I had just arrived too — my shift started half an hour after the end of classes.       “One peony, please. Pink,” — Emma said, taking out her purse. I lazily trudged after the flower, adjusting my green apron.       “Don’t be upset. There will be a lot of presented flowers in your life. Probably,” I tried to make my tone sympathetic, but the notes of sarcasm gave me away. Emma just sighed and said nothing, “by the way, we recently got some datura flowers. Do you need them for any witchcraft potions? “       “Do you have geraniums?” Emma suddenly asked. I raised my eyebrows in surprise and shrugged.       “There should be some. But, as I remember, only in pots,”       “Then I’ll probably buy geranium also,” Emma concluded with a sweet smile, “how much does it cost?”              I shrugged again and looked into the closet. There really was a geranium.       “What color do you want?” I stuck my head back out into the hall. Now Emma shrugged her shoulders.       “Your choice. The color doesn’t matter,” she answered, continuing to smile. I returned to the “refrigerator”, chose a pot with fewer flowers and returned to the store.       “And were there any with more flowers?” she asked, examining the contents of the pot. I chuckled irritably.       “Take what I give you.”       “I’m the one who is paying for this,” Emma noted, crossing her arms, “or should I complain to your boss?”       I cursed under my breath and dragged myself after another pot. Having chosen not the most shameful, but not the most beautiful either, I returned to the store again.       “Ten dollars” I muttered.       “Finally,” Emma handed me the money, “but now let me give this wonderful geranium to you!”       I was taken aback and stared at Emma, ​​who was smiling contentedly.       “Why such generosity?” I muttered in surprise, taking the pot and putting it in front of me.       “In the language of flowers, geranium signifies the recipient’s stupidity,” Emma answered with a shrug and a laugh.       My face reflected everything I had not managed to say — Emma, ​​foreseeing the storm, immediately retreated, laughing loudly. I grabbed the flower, preparing to throw it after the fleeing girl, but changed my mind, deciding that the geranium was not to blame for our mutual hostility.       Emma came again only a week later, on Saturday morning, but this time she was not alone. In her arms she was holding a pale girl of about five years old in a flowery dress and a shock of the same red hair.              ”…And then bang” she emotionally spreaded her arms and almost felt, “and then…”       “Loui, choose, and then you can tell me,” Emma interrupted the girl softly. The little girl began to turn her head in different directions, examining the flowers.       “Let me stand,” she declared decisively, “I have rested and now I can walk a little by myself!”       Emma smiled and carefully lowered the child to the floor. The girl began to wander between the vases, carefully examining the contents and sniffing the buds. I watched, standing behind the counter, until Loui finally spoke again:       “And yet, peonies are the best flowers!” the girl delivered her verdict, placing her hands on the hips, and resolutely headed towards me. She was below the counter, so I could only see the top of her red head, “Mister, I want one pink peony, please!”       I smiled and looked questioningly at Emma. She, also smiling, nodded at me, giving the go-ahead for the peony.       “As you say, young lady,” I went up to the vase, “which one do you like most?”       Loui frowned thoughtfully. Finally, she pointed to one of the flowers in the middle.       “This one,” she nodded, confirming her words, “you know, I really like flowers. Especially pink ones. And I really like peonies. Of course, I like tulips, and orchids, and asters, but peonies most of all. And I don’t like roses. They are prickly. I once pricked myself on the thorns — I even started bleeding, can you imagine? So I don’t like roses anymore…”       I was packing the flower, listening to the cheerful chatter of the child. Emma stood a little further away, looking at other flowers.       “By the way, in the language of flowers, peonies mean…” she cast a helpless glance at Emma.       “Longevity,” Emma prompted.       “Exactly! My sister knows a lot about flowers!” Loui began to tell again, “before that, she bought them from an old woman who was engaged in breeding peonies. We used to went to her ourselves. When I grow up, I will also breed flowers! Emma says that I will definitely get well and live a long, long time if I eat well, right Emma?” she looked at her sister again. Emma nodded and patted the little girl on the head. I looked at Emma questioningly.       “Tuberculosis,” Emma answered briefly.       “I don’t know what it is, but my sister says that it’s like a cold,” Loui noted importantly.       “Here you go,” I handed the peony to the girl, and she happily took it. Emma handed me the money, but I shook my head, “no need, it’s a gift. Now, we’re done for the geranium.”       “You’re so kind!” Loui hugged me impulsively, “we’ll definitely come again!”       “Thank you,” Emma also smiled, taking the girl in her arms.       When I found out that Emma worked part-time at a cafe two blocks away, I was surprised, and then a plan formed in my head. Despite the fact that I generously “paid” for the geranium at our last meeting, I still wanted to fully repay the gift. So, having studied enough theory, I began to prepare. My choice fell on a red petunia — based on my knowledge, it is literally a symbol of irritation.       As soon as my shift ended, I headed to the cafe, which turned out to be a rather cozy and nice place. Emma came up almost immediately: her face did not express any emotions at all except good-natured politeness.       “Welcome! Have you already chosen what you want to order?” she asked.       “One latte, please,” I asked.       “Okey,” Emma quickly wrote something down in a notebook and disappeared.       The coffee was ready in ten minutes. Emma brought it, I thanked her and began to wait. Looking around the room, I suddenly noticed Loui — she was sitting in the far corner, comically swinging her legs on a high chair and drawing. I smiled.       “Excuse me!” I called out to Emma, ​​who was passing by, “can you please pass the dessert to that nice lady at the far table?” I asked, pointing at Loui, “Of course at my expense.”       Emma looked where I was pointing, and her eyebrows crawled up in surprise. She shot me another look, as if to clarify, then again at Loui and then back at me. I smiled involuntarily, watching her reaction.       “What kind of dessert exactly?” Emma asked, getting ready to write it down.              “What do you recommend?”       “The young lady prefers berry desserts. We have panna cotta, sorbet, meringue roll, and berry cheesecake.       “Then let’s have the meringue roll,” I decided. Emma nodded and left. I watched as she took the dessert to her sister and said something, nodding in my direction. Loui looked at me, smiled widely and waved. I waved back. When Emma walked away, the girl raked her things into a backpack, picked up a plate with dessert and carefully carried it in front of her, moving to my table.       “Thank you very much!” plopping down on the chair opposite, she began, “how did you even guess that I would like it? Are you a wizard? Don’t answer, I don’t want to be upset! Why did you come? And why do you need flowers?” Loui asked, pointing to the pot in the bag.       “For Emma, ​​but it’s a secret,” I answered.       “Then I won’t tell her,” the girl whispered conspiratorially.       I don’t know why I felt such sympathy for Loui. I wanted to do something good for the sick child sitting opposite me, but I didn’t know what. So I just listened to her contented chatter and watched Loui eat her cake. The coffee was long gone — I had already paid for it when Emma appeared out of nowhere.       “Why are you sitting here?” she continued to smile, “if you’ve finished your coffee — get lost. Don’t take up space.”       I glanced around the almost empty room and chuckled.       “Why are you doing this, he’s a good guy,” Loui muttered upset. Emma pursed her lips in irritation. I smiled triumphantly.       “I’m waiting,” I casually remarked, “I have business with you.”       “My shift won’t be over soon,” Emma snapped.       “No problem, I have a lot of free time,” I smiled.       “No need. Tell me what you do you want,” She was clearly starting to lose her temper. I shrugged and decided that I’d had enough of annoying her. Well, at least for today.       I took a flowerpot out of the bag and handed it to Emma. Her eyes widened in surprise — she looked at me, then back at the flower, and frowned.       “Why petunia?..” she muttered.       “What?” I shrugged, “the meaning of the flower doesn’t suit you?”       Emma stared at me in confusion.       “Petunia, especially the red one, means “ardent love” in the language of flowers,” Loui blurted out without thinking.       I stared at the girl in shock, and felt my cheeks flush with a bright color that matched the shade of the petunia in my hands.       “That’s not what I meant,” I muttered uncertainly, “I thought that petunia was a symbol of irritation…”       “You’re lying! You couldn’t give your sister a flower with such a meaning,” Loui objected, “I knew you are in love with my sister!”       “Loui, will you bring water for the flower?” Emma asked. She was no longer frowning — now she was trying to hold back her laughter. I glanced at her from under my brows, clasping my hands. Loui jumped up and ran to the kitchen.       “Don’t worry, I understand,” Emma patted me on the shoulder, “there are many interpretations of flowers, so it was easy for an unprepared person to make a mistake. Let’s consider that your revenge was a success.”       “Thank you very much,” I muttered, getting up, “tell Loui that I have urgent business.”       “Are you running away?” Emma asked mockingly. I measured her with an angry look, “okay, okay. See you soon!”       Before I knew it, Emma and Loui had become regular customers by the beginning of November. They usually came on Fridays — sometimes right after school, sometimes before closing time, but quite consistently. Loui and Emma choosing another peony — became an integral part of my life. Sometimes, when there were few peonies left, I would put a couple of them aside on purpose, so that after the customer left, I could put them in an empty bucket and Loui could choose the most beautiful one. I listened to the child chatter and smiled. Sometimes they stayed for tea after closing time, or I would run into the cafe where Emma worked.       At the beginning of winter, Loui began to appear every other time, and then completely disappeared. Emma was coming alone. At first, it was just quiet — I was used to Loui constantly chatting, and there was no need to say anything. But after a couple of weeks, I realized that the silence had dragged on.       “Where is Loui? She hasn’t visited for a long time,” I casually asked. Emma shuddered and stared at me. She seemed to have lost weight, and bluish circles had spread under her eyes. She became much quieter, did not respond to the caustic attacks, and got another job.       “Winter exacerbation,” she muttered, “the doctors say it’s fine. I mean, definitely not fine, but quite common and expected.”       “She’s in the hospital?” my heart sank. I heard Loui cough more than once. That hoarse, loud sound, after which the girl sheepishly wiped her lips with a napkin, gave me goosebumps.       “Yes. Temporarily,” Emma held out the money.       “No need,” I pulled two more peonies out of the bucket, “here, take them. I’ll pay.”       Emma smiled tiredly.       “Thank you. I’ll tell her it’s from you. She will be happy. You know, Loui was really upset that she can’t visit you.”       “I’ll go see her, if you don’t mind,” I smiled back, but Emma shook her head.       “The doctor isn’t particularly happy to let me in either. He says Loui is very worried, and she doesn’t need that right now. But I’m her sister, so it seems like they can’t forbid it. So we have an unspoken rule — I usually come when Loui is asleep. And they definitely won’t let you in,” she tucked her long hair behind her ear. I noticed a small braid which Loui had made it in front of me, almost a month ago, and the hair had fallen out and become disheveled.       “Okay, I nodded,” then I’ll come to you when I’m free. Of course, if you don’t mind.”       Emma nodded and headed for the door.       Conversations with Emma became longer and longer. Since Loui had been hospitalized, Emma clearly had no one to talk to. I didn't complain. Despite the constant teasing from me and the fact that at school we acted like we didn't know each other, every time the doorbell rang, I would emerge from the utility room in the hope of seeing her. With Emma, ​​it was simple and understandable. She was cheerful and good-natured, forgave my idiocy and responded with equally witty nonsense. We listened to music, did homework together (she constantly needed help with physics), and just sat on the steps of the shop or cafe where she worked, drank tea and talked. I asked about Loui’s condition, flowers, school and other little things. We were meeting almost every day, and stayed together for hours.       In mid-January, Loui got better. I managed to visit her — the girl was pale, but quite energetic and happy to see us. Loui happily braided disheveled pigtail, telling about all sorts of little things. She emotionally complained to us about the staff, constantly interrupting herself to cough, but then assured us that she felt much better, because she might cough more often, but not as much. Emma nodded understandingly, but when we left the room, she had a long conversation with the doctor.       It happened in the second half of February. Emma hadn’t come in for two weeks, and I was worried. No one had seen her in the cafe or the supermarket where she also worked for even longer. I was about to find out her address at school when she finally came. It was a bit chilly in the morning and it was raining intermittently. There was still some dirty snow here and there, but no new was falling. She went into the store, shook off her boots, took two peonies out of a bucket and put them on the counter. I looked her over from head to toe: her red hair, except for a thin braid behind her ear, was cut shorter than mine and from the back, I would have taken Emma for a guy if it weren’t for her black dress. I also noticed that everything on her, from her tights to her hair tie, was black.       “Are you going to a funeral or something?” I chuckled. She raised her swollen, dark eyes to me.       “Two peonies, please,” Emma asked barely audibly. Blood was caked on her bitten lips, highlighting the pallor of her face. I swallowed.       “I’m… sorry, it seems my joke was,” I mumbled something else, but Emma was not listening. She handed over the money, took the flowers and quickly headed for the door.       “What happened, at least?” I threw after her, not expecting an answer. But she froze in the doorway, turned around and looked at me again. I was never good at lip reading, but the moment she barely moved her lips and muttered “Loui” I understood the first time.       We were alone at the short burial ceremony. I did not dare ask where their parents were. Emma did not cry — she just listened to the prayer with detachment, and then watched as the small coffin was lowered into the hole. She seemed to shrink — I was sure that she had cried so much that she simply had no more strength left. The rain turned to snow. White flakes fell on a fresh hill. The priest had long since left, but Emma was still standing, clutching two peonies in her fingers, white from the cold.       “We have to go,” I whispered, gently taking her elbow. She looked up at me, her eyes full of tears.       “I can’t leave her,” Emma whispered quietly, “she… she’s just a child.”       I will always remember this picture — Emma silently sobbing and two peonies swaying in the wind.

***

      The June sun was mercilessly burning - the rays were tangled in Emma's red hair, making her look like a small light. I squinted, but did not look away. The hill decorated with wild flowers was fragrant, interrupting the smell of peonies in the girl's hands. Emma knew how to tell stories - I listened enchanted, and it seemed that her voice was woven like a thin thread into the chirping of insects, the rustling of the wind and the chirping of birds.       “Thank you for coming with me to visit her,” Emma thanked him unexpectedly, tucking her long curls behind her ear.       "No problem," I shrugged. It had become our tradition - on Sunday mornings we would pick out two peonies at the store and go to Louis's grave to lay flowers, “in that short time we still became friends. I'm not doing this for you, but for myself and Loui. I liked her. Much more than you by the way…”       "Hey!" She poked me in the side with a sharp elbow. I laughed, watching Emma frown. It took six hard months before she got better. It was half a year full of regrets, apathy and hysteria. Hard for her, and nerve-wracking for me. But finally, with the arrival of August, Emma started smiling again.