Servo Blooms
He stood there as I watched him - bursting with pride, sunglasses on, rocking back slowly on the balls of his feet eager to pay for his purchase of petrol, gum, and service station flowers.
Who were they for?
Were they for his doting Mum who had been feeling poorly and lay infirm somewhere in a bed on a colourless ward, or was she glowing with good health and had simply invited him over for dinner and a game of Scrabble?
Are they for his wife, who had been dutifully cooking the dinner of boiled spuds, chops, peas and gravy – which are probably now dehydrating in the oven beneath a glimmering cover of silvered foil?
Perhaps they are for his secret lover, the $20 bunch wou
ld make her feel extra special tonight, and of course the notion that he is choosing to visit her instead of going home to his wife and children – ‘Ahh late business meeting Dear’.
Perhaps for the new lady in his life, who he is on his way to see, still in that initial heart-skipping stage of the relationship where he is keen to demonstrate his thoughtfulness.
Service station flowers – the ultimate impulse buy.
An eclectic mix of traditional buds – chrysanthemums, daisies, a random white rose or two, the unidentifiable green fluffy buds, and the quintessential baby’s breath. Without scent. The remnants of the morning flower markets, gathered up in gaudy pink or orange tissue, a big plastic ribbon, encased in cellophane, and now occupying a bucket near the engine oil and L-plates.
Surely no one had ever thought to themselves ‘This Wednesday evening, I shall drive to the service station to pick up one of their very special bunches’? Carefully sifting through to locate the bunch with the fewest brown-fringed petals and nicest ribbon.
Did people ever feel special to receive a bunch of these flowers?
Did the Mum gush over her prodigal child’s bestowal and silently congratulate herself for raising such a generous son?
Did the wife hesitantly receive the bunch of garage blooms and wonder about all of these late meetings and business trips – her heart silently breaking with the burden of probability.
Did the new girlfriend, blinded by her lust, simper at the lavish spending of her new beau and ensure her precious flora were placed upon a metaphorical pedestal where she could float past it multiple times a day feeling truly adored?
And what of the unloved bunches? Were they tossed in a heap at the end of their three-days shelf life, or were the good separated from the wilted to be thrust together in a new heterogeneous bunch? Second-chance posies.
Why are these flowers cheapened by the company they kept? Is not every living thing precious? A veritable miracle of nature?
Are these bunches a metaphor for ourselves?
The kids were fighting by now and disturbed from my deep thought I drained the last few mouthfuls of my service station coffee and rose to go as the man paid for his flowers and left.
