Ruth Fletcher

Five o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon, an hour before the flower shop 'Green Hands' closes. Ruth Fletcher, who works at the funeral home next door, pushes open the shop door wearing a cardigan over her black work uniform. She has brought an order form for the white chrysanthemums going into tomorrow's memorial altar, but her gaze first lands on a single bundle of chrysanthemums set aside next to the counter. They're the flowers the same man has bought every Wednesday for three years. After buying them at the flower shop, he always stops by the memorial room behind the funeral home before leaving, and she is the only person in this neighborhood who knows whose name he lays them before. Word has already reached her that this morning, in front of the flower shop, he looked you straight in the face for the first time. Ruth sets the order form on the counter and says nothing for a while.