POV: VIVIAN
The flowers arrive on a Tuesday, which is an ordinary day in the specific way that days are ordinary when nothing has happened yet to make them otherwise.
I'm between meetings, sitting at the desk in my New York apartment with the project documents spread across the surface and a coffee going cold at the edge of it, when the doorbell produces the sound that belongs to a delivery, and I answer it with the specific distraction of someone who is in the middle of a thought and is receiving an interruption.
White flowers. No arrangement name, which means they were ordered custom rather than from a preset selection. The specific white of them is not the generic white of condolence flowers or celebratory flowers but a particular shade that has no ordinary category, the shade that exists in the specific overlap between cream and pure white, and I look at them for a moment before taking them because the color is registering something before I know what it's registering.
