Floral Arrangements

-Kheelwithit-

Ha, the only way I'd date anyone again is

if he bought me a thousand flowers.

Fine.

Chapter One

The Art of The Arrangement

"Elizaveta, you really should just give in, sweetie,"

A consoling hand reaches over to separate me from one of my greatest friends, alcohol.

"Damnit, Emma, I-I dun' need yer damn *hic* worriessss~ I need this booze... no-Nonononoooooo men. Nopie. Not for Eliiiizaaaaa~ "

The girl from Belgium worries for her friend, after all, denying relationships and drinking to the excessive was, in her experience, regarded as unhealthy behaviour.

"You really don't have to swear off of these sorts of things. Relationships and heartbreak and death are perfectly normal parts of life,"

The very much inebriated girl shoots up from her seat, slamming her fist agressively against the table.

" It is not! Heartbrokennessness is a tebirrle diseeeease that's worse than AIDS 'nd cancers"

The other patrons at the bar giggle at Elisa's alcohol fueled outburst as the bartender sweeps away her cup and guestures for Emma to take her friend home. Elisaveta sinks her hands into her brown hair and her arse into a brown stool. Everything is brown for her today. Coke and rum is brown like the walls like her hair like the chair like the bartender's skin like the table like the dress Emma's in and like shit.

Shit's brown too.

She feels brown like shit.

"Come on, now, time to go home, dear"

Eliza doesn't protest, eager to have another day gone and passed. She mumbles drunken goodbyes to the cubana from Havana behind the bar, and he nods to her. Guided out on tottery feet by steady hands, Elizaveta leaves her friend, walks down her street, has a chat with the flowerman at her corner, goes home to her apartment and tries not to think of how rediculously brown and lonley she feels.

Emma is completely justified in worrying for her friend.

Morning arrives with a spring in it's step and the news drones on about yesterday nights showers and today's hectic traffic. Elizaveta has a job, so she is forced to arrive with it, sans the step springing. This season can step its springy self right up the arse of someone who cares. Elizaveta just wants to have the day behind her as quickly as possible. Into he shower. Brush teeth. Make up. It's routine.

Toweling off her hair, she waltzes through the house in the nude, dresses, and eats breakfast at a table for two in as quiet of an atmosphere as she can make. Her headache can't take any Chopin right now. No matter how angry she feels. One of these days she's gonna stop drinking on Sundays. The same day that she forgets why she likes playing Chopin when she's cross, and hell freezes over. She throws half a bowl of unfinished Apple Jacks down the drain and slips cute black heels over sheer black tights, grabs her navy peacoat and purse, steps out the door and

Falls flat on her ass the second her foot touches the floor.

Really? Her rumpus asks her feet. Did ya really have to forget how the hell to walk? Elizaveta shares the same sentiment. The culprit for her spill is a package on the floor that waits quietly for her attention. And it gets it, but only after Eliza has stood and brushed off her very upset, but not bruised arse. It's wrapped up in last weeks newspaper and tied in a pretty complicated bow of simple red twine. Tug. Pull. Pry. Uncle. That knot is too damn hard. Out comes the trusty pocket knife.

Snip. Better. Open the paper- huh, didn't know the mayor was running for a second term- A book.

Aah. Probably Feli's. Thin, black paperback and a lilly on the cover. The stupid mailman kept sending the mail that belonged to Feliciano to her, and hers to Feliciano. Which was stupid, because she hadn't lived in the apartment across the hall for two years. She couldn't. That apartment was for two. There was only one of her. Yeah.

Knock knock.

"Be~ buon giorno, Eliza~"

"Morning, hey, look, I'm going to work, but it looks like the mail guy dropped off the wrong package. Were you expecting a book?

"Mou, no time for small chat, then.. I didn't order no boo-"

"Any" Lovino's voice comes from the back of an overstuffed brown leather armchair Elizaveta can see from the crack in the door.

"Si, s, fratello. Sorry, bella, I didn't order any books. Ya should'a gave-"

"Should have given,"

"You should have given it to me after you got back, if you were already downstars, si?"

What?

"What?"

"Well, 's jus' that the mailbox it'sa all the way down there, si? So go just take it ta work an' give it to me tomorrow other than runnin up six flights of stairs, be?"

"I didn't get this from my mailbox,"

He peers over her shoulder at the paper mess.

"It didn't come from mailmain, maybe? A suprise gift,"

"It's, is, just go, instead of. Speak right, chigi,"

"Fratello ~ gimme a break, eh?"

"No,"

Elizaveta doesn't hear anymore of what promises to be another hilarious Vargas conversation. She's too busy running out the door, almost tripping on the stairs, (don't you dare, says rumpus) and leaping into her car to battle the early morning satan-traffic.

When she gets to work, the litle black lilly book sits in the top drawer of her desk, missing her attention. The mysterious sender is leaving another package at her door.

One down, nine hundred and ninety nine to go.