Walking into the flower shop was like walking through a tunnel in a dystopian novel. Not because there was anything haunting about it, but because it was dark, cavernous, humid and at the end of a long hallway was a little room with a check-out desk and skylight.
People used to talk a lot about how much they hated getting hand-me-downs. As the youngest sibling, I had a plethora of clothing that was older than me filling up my closet. But nowadays, I seek out hand-me-down clothing, whether that’s from my family, my friends or local thrift stores. I get so much more enjoyment out of the history (or potential history) behind the pieces than simply buying a shirt from a department store.
A few houses down, on the top floor of a double decker, an elderly man with a bird on his shoulder stood in his window. An amber light shone down on the pair of them, so there’s no way for me to tell what color the bird really was, but I think he was something like blue and orange and yellow. I also wasn’t wearing my glasses — so who’s to say if it was really a bird at all.
