Blue. It is a well-used colour. Used in expressions like "she was so blue today", meaning, of course, sadness. Or "It came like a bolt from the blue", meaning it came as a sudden surprise. Blue is also used in painting, blue for the sky, for the sea, river. Blue flowers are also very charming indeed. And blue flowers were usually looked upon favourably by young women. Especially this particular young woman.
But this bouquet of flowers did nothing to cheer this young lady up. Considering that they were sent by...
'He actually has the nerve to send me flowers!' Lauren burst out. 'Can you believe that?'
She was sitting at the table, sipping steadily out of a glass filled with vodka. Next to her, Fitz was holding the bouquet gingerly. 'Perhaps it was meant as a sign of goodwill?' he asked hesitantly. Lauren scoffed. 'Good will? Fitz, the flowers were obviously meant as a challenge.' Her tone suggested that she was patiently explaining to a five year old instead of a twenty-five year old.
'Of course,' Fitz muttered beneath his breath. If Lauren heard it, she ignored it. 'Let's face it, Elle.' He stood up. 'If Mr...Can I see the card?'
His only reply was a glare, but Lauren handed the card over anyway. Fitz's eyes scanned the card quickly. It was a red card, made of some stiff paper, but it was the handwriting that caught Fitz's eye. It was scrawled neatly, black ink on red paper. Leaning closer, Fitz frowned. He was now tempted to think that whoever it was, they wrote it with a fountain pen. Which spelt a sense of anachronism. Come on, who would write with a fountain pen nowadays?
As if hearing Fitz's silent question, Lauren looked up. 'I do,' she aswered mildly. Rolling his eyes, Fitz flopped down next to her. 'That's because you're fascinated with anything and everything. Heck, you even have an obsession with guns!'
'Correction: It's a fascination, not an obsession.' Lauren spoke, turning to him. Her low voice reminded Fitz where they were: at a posh club where they had live jazz and blues singers come in every night. The club was dimly lit, and it served it purpose as a meeting place well.
Fitz took a sip of his martini. 'And the difference being?' The second it left his mouth he mentally slapped himself. Way to get her into lecturer mode again, Fitz.
Predictably, Lauren shrugged. 'A fascination means I'm attracted to the idea of guns, of handling a gun, of shooting a gun. I have nothing against it. An obssesion, on the other hand, means that I'm having really unhealthy thoughts about guns. Like buying a gun so I can brandish it about and shoot people. Or even carrying a gun around me at all times so I can wave it and do some damage. That's an obsession.'
'Of course,' Fitz muttered. It was one of Lauren's favourite words to use when she was exasperated, and it was starting to rub off him as well. He had to stop spending so much time with her.
Conversation stopped as Lauren continued to sip her vodka. Then she spoke again. 'Did you see what he wrote?'
Fitz's attention was once again turned towards the card. '"Dear Lauren, I hope you won't be too displeased to know that I'm on board as well. Hopefully your favourite flowers can help to dispell some of the animosity. Mai la meilleure victoire de personne."' Fitz scowled. 'What the hell is "mai la meilleure victoire de personne"?'
'May the best person win,' Lauren translated fluently. 'Did you notice something else, Fitz?'
'Yeah.' Pause. 'How the hell did he know what your favourite flowers were?'
Lauren shrugged. She was focused on the pianist, a man in a blue suit with grey eyes and burnish hair. Seated at the grand piano, he played a jazzy tune that Lauren thought she recognised. Looking up, he caught her eye, and gave her a smile, dropping a wink at her. She felt herself smile at the exchange.
Then a waiter approached and handed her an envelope. Frowning, her mood changed instantly from mellow to arctic as she opened the envelope and looked at the contents. She exchanged a look with Fitz, and her expression was unreadable. Standing up, she finished her vodka with one eye on the pianist, who was looking at her, and left the club.