There is this place on a relatively busy, but still kind of dark, road that is half ping-pong house and half flower shop. It actually may not be divided only into halves; I feel like it may also be part storage facility, and, possibly even, part home.
I don’t know how many flowers they sell each day. I wonder if that one man, who seems single but definitely isn’t, buys flowers after his weekly ping-pong lesson and takes them home to his wife. She hates it when he plays table tennis until after ten o’clock on a Friday night, but she knows he needs it. She knows it’s what keeps him going after his long week working behind his computer in their windowless basement. She wishes she knew what ping-pong had that she didn’t. She couldn’t imagine her life without flowers.
The owners are married. Just before closing, he makes her a bowl of soup in the back room. He gives her a taste out of a plastic bowl. I once washed my clothes in a bowl that looked just like it. She’s giving a lesson to a girl who could be her daughter; the girl is probably her niece.
The man returns to the back. He could be in someone’s basement. Everyone else could be in someone’s garage.
Most of the flowers are red. Red is such a confusing color.