Flower Stop

After careful thought and much deliberation John picks up his courage to chance an encounter at the bus stand in an effort to transform his life. Will Irene’s response send him packing or will it send his heart racing?

Irene Lobo stood at the bus stop in front of St. J’s. The sun was going down and the cool sea breeze was moving in. Her days seemed longer this tourist season at the Gonzales house luxury homestay. The rush started right after the flood of Monday check-outs when everyone was in a hurry to leave the paradise they had flocked to over the weekend. Irene reminded herself to add shampoo and conditioner bottles to her housekeeping purchase list. People always took them when they checked out. That and the toothpaste. Somehow everyone wanted tiny toothpaste tubes which you had to squeeze hard to get very little paste.

She had spent all day yesterday making sure all the rooms and bathrooms were cleaned, linen changed, towels replaced, toiletries restocked, and everything put back where it belonged to set up a perfectly arranged suites for the next guests. Then she had supervised cleaning the kitchen and pantry, inspecting all crockery, cutlery, and napkins.

“Good evening,” said a voice beside her.

She moved aside to make place for the man who came and stood next to her.

“Thank you,” he said.

Irene looked up and smiled in response. He was carrying a violin, an umbrella, and flowers.

“Bus is late,” he remarked.

“Yes,” she replied, “too much traffic.”

“You are waiting for bus?” he asked ingratiatingly.

“Yes,” she replied as she shuffled half a step away.

“I am waiting for Baga bus,” he announced “it is late.”

Wednesday should have been her off day, but a guest had dropped a serving spoon on the big English china serving platter. It had taken her the entire morning just to stick back the chipped pieces. The flower pattern would never be the same again. At least it was better than Wednesday last week when a burning cigarette in room number four started a little fire. She had to work two days just to get that one room clean and free of the burnt mattress smell.

“You work at Gonzales house, yes?” he asked, looking pointedly at her name tag.

Irene nodded as she took off the tag and put it in her purse, “I am the housekeeping supervisor.”

“I am head waiter,” the man announced by way of an introduction. “Myself John Martin,” he added.

“Irene Lobo,” she replied hesitantly. “You play the violin?”

“I play the fiddle at the Irish jig show in Calangute every Thursday,” John said, “my great grandmother was half Irish.”

Irene started rummaging in her purse to busy herself. For a moment she was tempted to pull out her rosary. It would make the perfect excuse to stop the man from talking. Then she put it back.

John Martin hesitated for a moment, cleared his throat, and then asked casually, “you live near Little Flower school?”

Irene looked up startled and clutched her purse.

“No, No! It is nothing like that,” John said quickly, mortified by the fear enveloping her, “I work at Sunshine Cafe in Arpora,” he continued in his most reassuring voice, “I see you get off at the Little Flower bus stop in the evening.”

A relieved Irene took a deep breath before she replied, “yes, I live behind the high school.”

“I live near Baga creek,” John continued somewhat relieved himself, “first I was living in Candolim.”

“Then what happened?” Irene asked.

“Then I got job in Arpora so I came to live at Baga creek with my mother,” John explained.

“I was also living in Saligao. Then I moved to Arpora to take care of my mother,” Irene said, “she passed away last year.”

“I am sorry,” John responded, “my mother passed away three months ago.”

“Oh! I am sorry.” Irene said, “are the flowers for her? Or your wife?”

“I am not married,” John replied hastily. Then he paused for a moment and took a deep breath before asking, “you have Wednesday off?”

“Yes,” Irene replied. “Why? You don’t see me walking from the bus stand on Wednesday?” she asked with a mischievous smile.

John blushed. “Cafe kitchen back door is just behind the bus stand. I stand there for my 6:30 break,” he explained weakly.

“When is your off day?” Irene asked, a little surprised at herself.

“Today.” John replied, “I play the fiddle at Calangute every Thursday, but very few people came to watch today. Everyone has gone to the carrom tournament. I think today will also be a busy day at the Cafe.”

“Wednesday is not a slow day?” Irene asked, then bit her tongue. The question sounded more forward than she would have liked. She felt the blood surging to her face.

“For me, Friday to Wednesday day and night is rush time,” John explained ruefully, “maybe I can take a Wednesday off next week,” he added hopefully.

Irene looked up flustered. “Is that the Arpora bus?” she asked, changing the topic.

John looked up and squinted to read the sign. “I think so, maybe,” he said, his voice trailing off in disappointment.

Irene hesitated, waiting for him to say something before she stepped forward. The bus began to slow down as it approached. John shuffled his feet and adjusted the umbrella hanging on his arm. Suddenly, the violin case started to feel awkward and heavy. His hand holding the flowers went stiff. His throat went dry. Words stayed stuck in his throat.

Irene moved toward the waiting bus.

John shook himself, unlocked the hand holding the flowers, and thrust the flowers toward her. “Here,” he blurted, the words tumbling out of his mouth, “I brought these flowers for you.”

Irene turned back with one foot on the bus step, her hand clutching the door handle. The orange glow of the setting sun lit up St. J. The flowers in John Martin’s outstretched hand fluttered in the breeze, ready to dance a jig.

She flashed him a smile and heard herself say, “you can give them to me at the Little Flower bus stop at 6:30 tomorrow evening.”