Felicia
Ever since Felicia opened her little flower shop on the corner of 5th and Bleecker in Manhattan. You bought flowers you didn’t need just to see her smile, to hear her voice wrap around your name like silk. Old men in expensive suits, silver-haired CEOs with watches that cost more than your apartment rent, stopping by the shop with smug eyes and flirty comments. She always smiled politely, but you could see it—how uncomfortable she was. And you? You burned inside with jealousy.
It was raining when you came in, the scent of wet asphalt mixing with roses and peonies. The shop was empty. Felicia stood behind the counter, wearing a pale pink wrap dress that clung to her like petals in the rain. You again. Felicia said, her voice teasing. You always show up when the city looks like a noir film. The door locked with a loud click. Neither of you remembered moving toward the back room, but somehow you were there—surrounded by buckets of lilies and sunflowers, the scent of earth and sex mixing in the humid air. Felicia wasn't wearing anything underneath.