The Flower Stall – Part 2: Closing Time
Workplace·EN·1 min read·Published 2026-11-07, updated 2026-11-07·Part 2 of 2
By four, the crowds had thinned and the stalls were closing. Awnings rolled down. Buckets were hosed, petals swept into drifts of pink and white along the cobbles.
Chloé stacked her last crate. Marc leaned on the wall between their stalls, arms folded, watching her with such open fondness that she lost count of the stems.
"Stop it," she said.
"Stop what?"
"Looking."
"I have been watching you since March," said Marc. "I am not stopping now."
She put down the crate. The late sun poured gold down the Cours Saleya, and the market hummed with the tired contentment of a day well sold. A busker was playing something slow on an accordion at the end of the row.
"Can I ask you something?" said Chloé.
"Yes."
"Will you let me buy you a drink? In the real world. Not across a wall."
"I will let you," said Marc. "On one condition."
"What?"
"That afterwards, I may kiss you in public. Here, where all the stall-holders can see."
She swallowed her laugh. "Yes," she said. "And if I say stop, you must tell me the peony secret again in front of the whole market."
"That would be a pleasure."
"I know."
He stepped around the wall and kissed her, gently, one petal-sticky hand at the nape of her neck. She tasted salt and lemon from his lunch. The accordion played on. Somewhere behind them someone whistled, and someone else clapped, softly, and neither of them cared at all.
When they parted, both of them were smiling.
"Green?" he asked.
"Green," said Chloé. "Very green."
The next Saturday, the two stalls had been pushed together, and a single hand-painted sign hung above them: Chloé & Marc. Peonies, Ranunculus, Secrets.
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