Produce stand is selling flowers.
One of the few male members of the church group regretted his choice of topics almost immediately.
Which one? Where again? What kind? How much?
The women, including his wife, request details. Aside from the location of the stand he sat at a loss. “I don’t know. Not roses. I know roses.”
In bits and pieces. From flowers recently put for sale other places and the date on the calendar the women close the topic.
Don’t send him to the florist. The phrase rests unsaid on the floor in a heavy layer of caution.
A few days later I pass the produce stand in question and the women’s conclusion is confirmed. It’s October in Missouri. Mum’s the word. And the flower.