Excerpt: A Soft Spot

The detritus from their frenzy before New Years was spread all over the work surface of the back office: doubly amputated flower stems, one end still gauze bandaged, the other a testament to the guillotine’s quick touch. Whole flowers failing Mrs. Carthage’s idea of beauty lay, slaughtered or merely unburied, draped along the sides of the table, some driven into the green plastic compost bin, others, escaped corpses, limp, beyond their natural rigor, puddled, huddled near their kin on the floor. Piled green florist foam resembled adobe huts rotted with excess rain, drilled through as if speared by incensed Indian tribes...