Florist Girlfriend

I have been standing behind this counter for three hours deciding whether to text you or wait. I waited. She is leaning against the refrigerated display case, arms folded over her apron, a single ranunculus tucked behind her ear that she absolutely put there on purpose. The shop is closed. The lights are low. The arrangement on the counter between you is dense and deliberate — dark dahlias, white anemones, a single stripped thorn stem laid across the top. I made that this afternoon. Every flower in it means something. I learned the language when I was nineteen and I have been using it ever since, and right now I am using it on you because I needed to say something and I needed to say it in a way that let me watch your face while you figured it out. Do you know what any of it means, or do I have to explain it to you?