(no subject)
Seymour is on his knees, sweeping up the soil that collects around some of the larger potted plants. (They sold three in as many months and considered themselves lucky.)
He’s nineteen. It’s summer, and summer in L.A., in this particular shop, means it’s too hot to think.
So when the bell over the door rings and a woman’s voice asks, “Excuse me, I’m looking for Mr. Mushnik?” Seymour’s automatic response is, “Oh, what for?”
It’s a second later that he remembers that today is the day for interviews. “Oh, er, right! He’ll be with you in a sec-” and he turns to look.
Her skin is golden, her hair sun-blonde and falling to her shoulders in waves. She’s wearing a turquoise strapless halter top and a short denim skirt, sandals with leopardskin straps. Firetruck red gleams at her toes, fingers, while her lips are seashell pink and glossy. She smiles at him.
He’s seen girls like her before. Marilyn Monroe in Some Like It Hot (Mushnik made him watch it when it was on TV, and Seymour liked it mostly because of Marilyn), Christina Augilera on the cover of magazines, Jessica Simpson in Daisy Duke shorts. But they never walked into Mushnik & Son’s Florists. They never smiled at him and expected him…expected him to oh God he has to say something-
“Hi.”
“Hi. My name’s Audrey Smith. What’s yours?”
“Seymour. Mushnik.”
“Oh, so you’re the son.”
Seymour chuckles and Audrey giggles (her breasts, soft and plump, jiggle underneath her top), even if it isn’t really funny. It’s just such a relief to break the ice.
“God, it’s beautiful in here,” she murmurs as she looks around. She half-turns (the denim twitches over those golden legs, flaring out and rising up just a little) to examine the rose section on the store.
“Beautiful,” Seymour murmurs. The room is hotter than it was before and no fan can cool it.
“Miss Smith?” Mushnik sticks his head out of the back room and notices them. “Come on back here, if you please.”
She’s looking at his dad. Seymour needs her to turn back to him, needs it like air and water. The words are pulled out of him like the moon swells the tide. “Good luck!”
Audrey stops - actually stops, he hadn’t expected that - and smiles directly at him. Her eyes are brown, warm and languid, and they smile too. “Thank you, Seymour.”
“It’s all- you’re wel-”
Mushnik clears his throat.
Seymour watches denim twitch and slide over those gorgeous legs. The crease of the back of the knee is suddenly sexier than he ever thought it could be.
The radio is playing Bob Seger's 'Night Moves' softly. (I woke last night to the sound of thunder / how far off I sat and wondered / started humming a song from 1962 / ain't it funny how the night moves) Seymour can’t hear the interview from the middle of the store. By the time he gets the courage to stand up and the cunning to figure out what he could pretend to clean at the back of the store, they're winding up. Audrey sees herself working here in five years, and she’s certainly up for the challenge of the floristry business.
She beams at him when she comes out. “Such a relief to be over. Well, Seymour,” her smile becomes slightly shy, which makes his heart twist in sympathy, “I really hope I see more of you.”
She holds out her hand. He takes it - why didn’t he wash his? he’s been handling money and money is filthy - and his stomach jolts like he’s at the top of a rollercoaster and it hasn’t gone down yet. (Seymour hated rollercoasters. He loves this.)
“Me too,” he manages, somehow, because his throat is dry as sawdust.
Once she leaves, Mushnik sticks his head out of the back room.
“At least you like girls,” he comments. “Was beginning to get worried, boychik.”
Even that doesn’t seem so bad. Because Seymour knows something Mushnik told him not to tell - that Audrey was the only applicant.
Seymour grins and thinks about denim.