Beth has never been regarded beautiful; in fact, she is rarely regarded at all. Her hunched shoulders, tube-shaped waist, round and guileless eyes mark her neither peculiar nor excessively ugly–only pathetically plain. She’s the type of girl other women find easy to talk to. Not because her presence holds any seeming insightfulness, or even, relatability, but because some women are able to clamor on at anything, and sometimes the perfect recipient is a human bean bag chair. But Beth doesn’t protest her footing, since life has not been fair to her in far too many more ways than one. And when someone is robbed of even the fundamentals of her existence, it’s difficult to be concerned with matters of popularity. Beth has acquired an attitude of acceptance that many deem weakness; upon a closer look, however, one can see that it is in fact character.

Beth is diligently–as she is with everything–trimming the stems of pink lilies when a young man strides into the small flower shop she works at. With joyful resolve, he requests, “A bouquet of lavender carnations, please.”

Her body goes stiff. It doesn’t matter how many people come through the store. When confronted with human interaction, Beth’s instinctual response is always a quick bout of panic. She blinks rapidly several times and returns to her homeostatic voidness.

The man doesn’t notice. He follows her to the cooler, and Beth pulls out a bouquet of lavender carnations. The scrupulous lover furrows his brow in disappointment.

“I’m proposing tonight.” He looks to Beth for help, “Lavender is her favorite color.”

Beth asks attentively, “Are carnations her favorite flower?”

“She doesn’t have a favorite flower. I thought classic roses would be boring.”

The florist shares her thoughts hesitantly. “Carnations are usually for Mother’s Day… And purple carnations, especially, can mean capriciousness… which… perhaps isn’t great for a marriage proposal.” She pauses, looking for permission to continue. “Maybe a combination of roses, calla lilies, and orchids?” Would that be alright? Her expression says.

Beth’s lack of confidence makes him doubt her. “Are they lavender?” he asks.

“I can arrange something with lavender, I think.”

But Beth knows that she can. She knows the perfect temperature for every breed and strain, and the exact macro and micronutrients needed for different soils. She can name every flower by scent, and she knows that yellow is for friendship, lilies mean sympathy, and chrysanthemums are arranged at funerals. Beth loves proposal flowers the most; not because they represent love, since all flowers represent love, but because they stand for promise. She assembles a balletic arrangement of lavender lilies, white orchids, and small indigo roses.

The young man leaves even more certain than he’d been coming in, completely enchanted with the floral composition, and not at all with the young woman who created it.

—

A sharp, squelched inhale at 4am, and Beth’s eyes snap open, again. A dream. It wasn’t real. Her mind runs through the grounding facts: it’s 2017; the month is March; you live on Hoover Street; that’s the ceiling; that’s your bedroom door. Her breathing lulls. Now, go back to sleep. Beth closes her eyes, but anxiety creeps. The type of fear that strikes at night, when nothing can distract it. Like jungle vines roping around her heart and chest, she remembers–not that she can forget–but now she’s trapped again in the fact that she doesn’t know where he is. She hasn’t heard his voice in almost two years. She doesn’t know whether he is anywhere, except that she’s never gotten the call.

That’s what she fears most: the call from the hospital or forensics officer, informing her that her younger brother has been found, and she needs to identify the body.

At 4:30am, Beth is at her most awake. She patiently awaits the sunrise.

—

Though her eyes have been open for the past three hours, as soon as Beth’s alarm sounds, she’s unable to move. The twenty-four-year-old isn’t quite a pessimist, but circumstance and experience has worn away at most of her energy and expectation. A day is a day, a moment is a moment, and no one can predict what will happen between one and the next. Beth only hopes that today is like yesterday and the day before: steady, ordinary. The young woman eventually gets up, brushes her teeth, and runs a comb through her thin locks before departing.

The florist mounts her secondhand cruiser bike and commences pedaling with stout legs. Her shoulders are back, her neck is long, her spine is as straight as it ever will be. Though Beth is ungainly most of the time, she can transport herself with unexpected grace. The commute is familiar–it’s something that’s hers. For these twenty minutes in the morning, she inspires the wind through her hair, exhibiting a glimmer of what could be confidence. She comes to a well-paced, consummate stop at an intersection and looks both ways even though the walk signal is on. A car more than 400 meters away approaches a red light, but Beth remains stopped. A pedestrian leisurely strolls past her to the other side of the street, and still, she waits. Beth has a rule: she doesn’t cross streets until there are no cars in sight. An irrational fear, maybe, but when both her mother and father had died in car accidents on separate occasions, who’s to say which is an exaggerated response, and which is a learned precaution? Perhaps it’s heroic she’s able to bike on the street at all.

Beth enters her second home. The shop extends shelter from most of the outside noise and unpredictability. Mr. and Mrs. Khasbulatov come twice a week to review bookkeeping, and there is one other employee, Mai, who works part time. Beth opens and closes six days a week, so this store is more hers than anyone else’s. She steps into the chilled backroom, switches on the light and is greeted by the well-known fragrance of mixed plants. She retrieves this morning’s delivery from the back lot–sunflowers–and sets to work at the front, removing extraneous leaves, trimming stems, and placing them into large, clean vases before arranging bouquets. Beth has received flowers once. Cyril Chang in the seventh grade, long-haired, four-eyed and rotund with a soul softer than his stomach. The bouquet of eight flowers is ingrained in Beth’s being: one hot pink rose, one yellow sunflower, one stem of dark lavender, one white daisy, one apple green orchid, one red tulip, one orange lily, and a stem of bright blue forget-me-nots. He had picked each one from the residencies of a much nicer neighborhood. And when the seemingly absent-minded twelve-year-old was caught, since he didn’t have the sense to be hidden in the first place, the owners were irate. Who was this stupid and obscure boy, old enough to know better, scavenging through their properties? Cyril answered resolutely that the flowers are beautiful, and he wants Beth to see them. An ignorant but pure act of love; they decided to let him off clean. Beth hadn’t discovered the bouquet’s origin until later, and when she did, her heart ached over the distress he must have weathered under so many eyes and questions. She kissed every inch of Cyril’s face. That summer was as bliss-filled and languid as any Jane Austen novel, and by fall, Cyril’s dad had gotten a job in Texas, and the family was packed and moved before Thanksgiving. Beth had kept the dried bouquet, a relic of their vital and interrupted love, until one day, Aaron, mad at his sister for not lending him money to buy a pocket knife, stomped on her flowers, leaving their crumbs in the carpet.

She misses him. On average, Beth thinks of Aaron at least four times a day. She allows it four times a day.

The small metal bell rattles, and a young woman, Beth’s age, with a septum piercing and large, round glasses, enters the store. She waves rigidly and says, “Hey,” in a relaxed alto. The girl ruffles her short, curly bangs. She’s holding a stack of paper. “We just opened an art studio and gallery called, ‘Free to Be’ a few doors down. All produced by local artists.” She presents her stack. “Was wondering if I could leave some flyers at your desk? We’re offering painting classes, too. If you enroll now, you get ten sessions for $70.”

Beth observes the girl’s tattooed sleeves and the denim overalls hugging her imperfectly pear-shaped body–she moves and speaks in a manner that says, I’m different, but not damaged, and the downtrodden florist is a bit envious. She gives a delayed response, “Of course.”

“Cool. Cool. Thanks.” The girl leaves the fliers with Beth. “I’m Ariel, by the way.”

“My name is Beth.”

“Sweet. Alright, Beth, hope to see you soon.”

Beth doesn’t know how to paint, but she used to sketch constantly–peers, teachers, strangers. Though no one looked at her drawings, she was often buried in a sketchbook during class, at lunch, or at the park after school. This was when people fascinated her. A natural observer, Beth could create full characters by catching a glimpse of someone’s physicality, and she believed in her own insights. She illustrated what she supposed to be that person’s soul. Her subjects were varied and profound, but ultimately fictional.

Then Beth’s perception of mankind went straight from ideal to bleak without the opportunity for much processing in between. Beth wasn’t a social kid or teenager. She wasn’t bullied either. She was content alone and never initiated getting close enough to anyone to be disappointed by them. When her mother died unexpectedly, and her father plummeted into alcoholism, though she’d never seen him drink before, Beth experienced her first betrayal. Then came her father’s death, and her aunts and uncles’ refusals to take in either her or her brother. Then came her brother’s drug addictions. Had Beth been exposed to more social friction growing up, even a bit of taunting or deception, she might have developed thicker, albeit calloused, skin. But being an inherently withdrawn and delicate person, the best way to describe Beth after these experiences is “shell-shocked.” She doesn’t understand people.

She glances at the flyer: strokes, shapes, colors, composition–this, she gets. A painting class right down the street… She hasn’t started anything new in over two years. Wouldn’t she prefer going home after work, making a lasagna, and sitting with a book? It’s been challenging enough to reach a daily balance. But Beth knows how it goes: it’s when she’s finally able to be alone without distraction that she feels the most alone. The only reason she hasn’t moved from her battered apartment with horrible management, though her hours and wages have grown, is because Aaron knows this address. It’s during these after work hours that every rustle outside sounds like it could be a knock on her door. She tries to fight it, but she’s listening, actively waiting, more than she’s able to read or eat or at times breathe. Beth should learn how to paint.

—

7pm the following week, the lone florist locks the register, takes out the trash and bolts close the rear and front entrances. Instead of getting on her bike, Beth goes to a small Mexican diner down the street. Being a Food Network enthusiast and a bit of a scientist in the kitchen, she rarely eats out. But tonight is her first day of class, and she needs a quick bite. A tall, slender Latina woman in her late thirties, either a waitress or the manager, appears from the back and raises a finger. Beth nods, “for one,” and the woman directs her toward a table outlooking the street. The shy diner buries her nose in a sticky, laminated one-sheet. Cow tongue, beef head, pork cheek, cactus, pickled vegetables… She bypasses and searches for her comfort zone. Beth orders a chicken taco plate and finishes every last bit of refried bean. She pays in cash and leaves a generous tip before heading to class.

Pacing through the industrial loft style studio without catching an eye, Beth arrives at check-in. Ariel meets her head-on without an ounce of recognition. Smiling ear to ear, the cool girl asks, “Here for the eight? Can I get yer name?”

“It’s Beth Spooner.”

Ariel nods. “You’re all set, Spooner.”

Beth pivots to a large table where several students are already seated. They possess a general look: 20s, tattoos, piercings, loud clothing, nice skin and decent hygiene. An older, androgynous blond wearing a Luke Cage tee that’s too tight in an unsexy way murmurs, “I fart in your general generation.” She scrutinizes the youth through her functional, undecorative glasses. “Your mother was a hamster, and your father was a middle-class accountant who paid for your college tuition.” The blond turns to Beth, expecting an accolade for her wit, and instead receives a sincerely apologetic look: I wish I knew what you were talking about.

“Hi everyone.” At front of room is a man in his early fifties with silky hair to his chin, a dark beard, and a relaxed but authoritative charm. His voice is soft, almost feminine, though he deliberately enunciates syllables in a way that compels one to listen. “I’m Greg. We’ll be spending some time in the evenings together for the next few weeks.” He speaks with loose hand gestures, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “I’m a painter. Mainly acrylic, mainly landscapes, but in this class, we’re focusing on self-portraits.” He scans the room. “Anyone create a self portrait before?”

The androgynous blond, a young man with bright green hair, and a girl in fishnets and combat boots raise their hands. Greg seems displeased with this sample.

“Let’s start with a different question.” The instructor turns to the student on his right. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Um. Mauveine.” Responds a small, bookish girl.

They go around the room.

“Cyan.”

“Dandelion.”

“Chartreuse.”

“Amber.”

“Red 266.”

“Blue,” Beth says.

Greg pauses. “I like blue.”

Beth can’t remember the last time someone’s looked at her in that way. She breaks eye contact, and Greg’s smile deepens with satisfaction.

Suddenly a girl with long, pinned-back hair and a bare face save for dark brows and lashes, enters apologetically. She is thoroughly beautiful, the type of woman whose outward appearance inspires faith in an imagined inner beauty. Quietly, she takes the seat beside Beth, who’s made starkly aware of her own crippling ordinariness. The young woman is equally embarrassed to have brought attention to herself.

“Your name?” Greg asks

“Annie. I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Your apology is accepted, this time. You were caught up at a date, I assume?”

Already deep pink, Annie furrows her brow. “No, not at all.”

“Or maybe you didn’t know it was a date, much to his dismay.”

Now magenta, Annie has no idea how to respond.

Greg grins. “Lighten up!” He gets a chuckle from the class. “We’re sharing our favorite colors. What’s yours?”

She thinks quickly. “Blue.”

“Excellent color,” the instructor responds. He moves on to the next student.

Beth glances at beautiful Annie, who’s still dwelling in her hot embarrassment. Past the girl’s cherubic features though, Beth is stunned to recognize a familiar mar, like a sickly patient who sees for the first time the occupant of an adjacent hospital bed. A vague flicker of something not quite placeable, an acknowledgement, an exclusive understanding, stirs in Beth’s small world.