Flash Fiction by Jessica Slee
I was crowded into a booth at my favorite cheap sandwich shop, doing what I always did while I took my lunch breaks: eavesdropping on cringe interviews. The other day I listened in while a sad sack in a wrinkled polo explained why he desperately wanted to be the assistant manager at a sports outfitting store. He’d had some glory playing Little League, I inferred, although I couldn’t say how many decades ago that must’ve been. Then it’d been someone interviewing with a TV installation business, making the worst small talk I’ve ever heard—and I’d seen the interviewer three times in as many months. I ate my turkey on wheat hoping for something just as entertaining.
The sandwich shop seemed to attract that kind of thing, and I liked having a show with my meal. Listening in on other people’s dates would be worse. I didn’t think I could handle that, after I caught my ex-wife cheating. It still hurt to think about, six months later. I often thought about what I would do to the man she left me for, if I ever saw him again. And they were still together, or so I’d heard. Not like the revolving door of the tables around me, filled with losers and washouts, all rife with depression.
I didn’t even know someone had been sitting in the booth behind me until another man carrying a big satchel slid into the opposite seat, and I heard a smooth voice say to him, “So glad to hear from you, Mr. McArthur. Are you still having that trouble with your landscaping?”
“Yeah. The garden’s a real problem.” The new arrival sounded a little panicky, out of breath. “I hear you’re the one for the job.”
Gardening. That’s a new one. Although this seemed like an odd way to meet prospective clients. Wouldn’t he have made a house call? I didn’t remember seeing any landscaping trucks in the parking lot.
“And what do you want me to do about it, exactly?” The first man didn’t sound like any landscaper I’d ever heard, either. He had the self-assured, oily voice of a car salesman or television lawyer. But he was speaking softly, and no one else at the other tables or the pickup window seemed to be able to hear their conversation.
“I want the roses deadheaded. You know.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s what I was told I should ask for.”
What kind of garden did this man have? There was a shuffle, like one was handing the other something, and then the panicky man said, “That’s too high.”
“That’s the price,” said the first. “Half on agreement, half on completion.”
A pause. Another shuffle. I had the growing suspicion that the two men weren’t talking about gardening at all. The only euphemism that made sense to me was that—
“I accept your terms.” The second man interrupted my thoughts, his voice cracking. “What are you going to do? You could deliver something…”
“No, we’ll take care of everything while you’re out,” the gardener replied. “We’re very prompt.”
More silence, while I sat there, too astounded to even take a bite of my sandwich. I was nervous my chewing would be louder than a rocket, the conversation I’d just overheard ricocheting around inside my head.
“If there’s nothing else…” The first man offered, and the second stood up, the meeting clearly concluded.
“If you advertised,” he said, laughing like he thought himself so original. “You’d really make a killing.”
“You know I only get new clients through word of mouth.”
He left as quickly as he’d come. The satchel was gone. I didn’t think he’d even gotten a drink. The coffee’s good, I wanted to say, but I held my tongue while I decided what to do next. I could walk away, or stay until the “gardener” left. I could go back to work and forget what I’d heard. No googling obituaries in a few weeks for a McArthur, no more listening in on copy shop interviews or phone calls delivering bad medical diagnoses.
Instead, I got up from my seat and moved into the now-empty side of the other booth.
“I hear you’re the person to speak to about a…flower delivery.”
My ex-wife had always liked roses. But the other guy would probably be the one getting the bouquet.
Bio: Jessica Slee studied English Literature and Creative Writing at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. She is a Claymore Award Winner, and in 2022 she was longlisted for the CWA Debut Dagger and the First Pages Prize. She was recognized in the Honor Roll of The Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2024 and her work appears in Punk Noir and Shotgun Honey Presents: Thicker Than Water. For more, visit her website HERE
Cover photo by:Pexels/Matthis Volquardsen
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I enjoyed this fun read with your clever use of a metaphor and the apt conclusion.