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interested in any other kind of flower.”
    “Is tat so? Yer girl knows what she wants now, does she?” A smile crosses the woman’s face.
    Allan takes a deep breath. “It can be many colors…”
    “Can it now.” The bird picks at something inside the woman’s ear. The woman strokes its back, returning the grooming favor.
    “Any color will do.”
    “Any color. I see. Colors are very important, ya know.”
    Allan nods. “Yeah. It’s the type that matters. It’s large like a sunflower with small petals, lots of petals. And a huge bulb of pollen in the middle.”
    The smile on the woman’s face relaxes. “Odd that you might be lookin’ for such a flower.” She shrugs. “I’ve just been brought such a plant, not even a week ago. Never seen such a breed meself. The grower tells me ’tis a new hybrid. Sunflower mixed with Dahlia Pompons. Tis a strange one, not a fan of the huge bulb of pollen. I can-na a think it’d be too popular, what with allergies ’n such.”
    “Show me. I must see this hybrid!”
    The bird turns to Allan and shrieks, reacting to Allan’s intensity. The woman’s eyebrows lift high on her forehead. “Keep yer skirts on.” She turns and walks to the back of the shop, passing the cluttered shelves and the sales counter. “Ye comin’ lad?”
    Allan rolls quickly to catch up.
    The back of the shop has a desk next to a huge insulated walk-in cooler. A man sitting at the desk types on a computer. The desk is trashed with papers, receipts, and books. He grunts. “Arrr, woman! You litter my desk like it’s the bottom of your birdcage! It pisses me off.” He realizes the woman is not alone and looks at Allan with narrow eyes. The woman ignores him and yanks the cooler door open. Allan peeks inside and sees plastic buckets filled with flowers and racks of sodas and teas. The bird hops off her shoulder and flies out of the cold and into Allan’s face.
    “Your parrot!” he yelps, waving his arms. The bird dodges Allan’s thrashing and lands on the handle of his wheelchair.
    “Don’t be a bollix, lad. Tis just tryin’ ta be friendly now,” she hollers from the cooler.
    Allan looks at the bird, which glares at him. It must have decided it doesn’t like Allan because it pecks his head.
    “Ow, get lost,” Allan hisses and rubs the pecked spot.
    The woman emerges holding a bucket of Hubbu flowers, deep purple and as large as cereal bowls.
    “By the look in yer eye, I’d say I’ve found the right bud.” She chuckles.
    Allan stares at the flowers. Tears swell up in his eyes.
    “How many do ye want?”
    “All of them.” There are a half dozen flowers in the bucket.
    The bird flies to the woman’s shoulder as she goes to the cash register. Allan pulls out some cash and pays. “Tis lookin’ like yer the one the flowers’re for. Don’t ya worry, I donna judge. A man that a likes flowers is a man all the same.” She wraps the Hubbu flowers in tissue paper. “How ’bout a bit of blue?” She winks and selects blue ribbon to tie around the tissue.
    Allan thanks her and rolls to the taxi as fast as his wheels can carry him. Once inside, he unwraps the flowers and stares at them. He’s so gentle with them, like they’re radioactive cores from a nuclear power plant.
    “Got a lucky lady waitin’ for you on the mountain, eh?” Charlie asks.
    “Yeah, but I just learned that she’s meeting me at my house. So I guess I need to go home.”
    The driver turns to look at Allan, his brow furrowed. “Your meter says you owe me eighty-nine dollars.”
    Allan frowns. “Oh.”
    “Look, buddy. I’ll shut off the meter for ya. The system will say I dropped you off here, capiche? It’ll save you some of that hard-earned allowance.” He drives off.
    “Thanks, Charlie, I owe you one.”
    “Donna worry ’bout it.”
    Allan cradles the Hubbu flowers. They are just like the one he saw in the woods a year ago but a little more purple than he remembered. It didn’t matter, they were the