The flower-lady

COMPULSION . (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

“Can I get another glass of water?” asked ****** to our waitress at a restaurant in Canandaigua. It was our weekly Tuesday-night eat-out; there were five of us — all bereaved of a spouse, except for the daughter of one of whose wife had died.
Most vocal was *******, who lost her beloved almost six years ago.
****** and her husband founded a successful flower-shop north of Canandaiguia. That business still exists, but ****** sold and retired after her husband died.
I let ****** run the show. If it’s just ****** and me, we have a roaring good time. If other ladies attend, they yammer with ******, and I don’t say much.
“Here, watch this,” ****** said, as she poured that second glass of water into a pretty flower centerpiece on our table.
“You consumed your entire meal at this restaurant laying plans to do that?” I shouted.
“Those flowers were screaming at me: ‘Save us ******; there’s only a half-inch of water in this vase, and our stems can’t reach it. Without water we’re doomed.’”
“Flowers by *******” their business was called. It’s still “Flowers by *******,” but is no longer what it was. Their greenhouses were demolished, and their store rebuilt into a palace.
Worst of all, ****** is no longer running things. People wanted to buy flowers from ******; she made them laugh.
Now water-starved flower displays await. If the restaurant-staff doesn’t care, ****** does.