His head turned to the side a little. “It’s better,” he said quietly.
“The pain?” I asked. He nodded a little. “Good,” I said. And then, like the bitch I am:
“You were saying something about Gus?” But he was gone.
I went downstairs to the tiny windowless gift shop and asked the decrepit volunteer sitting on a stool
behind a cash register what kind of flowers smell the strongest.
“They all smell the same. They get sprayed with Super Scent,” she said.
“Really?” “Yeah, they just squirt ’em with it.” I opened the cooler to her left
and sniffed at a dozen roses, and then leaned over some carnations.
Same smell, and lots of it. The carnations were cheaper, so I grabbed a dozen yellow ones.
They cost fourteen dollars. I went back into the room; his mom was there, holding his hand.
She was young and really pretty. “Are you a friend?” she asked,
which struck me as one of those unintentionally broad and unanswerable questions.
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