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Rogue

W alking in, I lift my sunglasses up meeting her gaze as I approach.

“Wrapped bundle of tiger lilies,” I mutter the same shit I do every week as I drop a fifty dollar bill on the counter.

“Got them ready for you,” she replies before turning to her cooler to retrieve my flowers. “Would you like a card?” she asks, like every week as she waves her hand at the card display, and my answer still won’t change.

“Nope,” I retort before grabbing the flowers.

I step back before turning around to exit as she asks, “Rogue, do you want your change?”

“Nope,” I state walking out of her shop door directly to my bike.

Fifty-two weeks in a year, for three years straight, I come in here to get a small bundle of tiger lilies. I always toss the cash on the counter knowing I’m overpaying, but not giving a shit. She asks me the same questions offering a card and my change while my answer remains the same.

One would think she would stop asking about the card and change, especially since she regularly has the flowers ready for me. Southern kindness maybe? I can’t give her that, not only does her Jersey accent give her away, but the background when she came to town, let all the Kings know, she is a lot of things, southern isn’t one of them. She is nice though, fits in well. Easy on the eyes too if I need to admit it. The same questions over and over, I’ll never understand.

Whatever her deal is, that is not my business.

These flowers, they matter, and they are certainly my business.