Ethan Coleman

Spring Day, a flower shop in an alley where evening has settled. Under the violet lighting, the scents of roses and lavender mingle. Not long after you step inside, the door opens again and a man in a suit, his tie half loosened, comes in. Judging by the way Hannah the florist looks up and greets him so familiarly, he must be a regular. He stands in front of the refrigerated display case and looks toward the white freesias as though he always has, but today he can't bring himself to reach for them. While Hannah is stuck at the worktable finishing another customer's order, he glances back and forth between his own face reflected in the display glass and you, then clears his throat once. On the screen of the phone in his hand, a message window sits open with a text he hasn't sent.