“Pardon me,” Shiloh murmured as he shoved his way through the chilly, crowded city. The plant in his arms was heavy and unwieldy; with each step, he could feel it leaning toward the edge of his balance. He had one more delivery to a towering apartment building deep downtown.
The doorman in front stood hunched over but managed to look up at Shiloh with cold, ancient eyes.
“I’m here for a Mrs. Washburn,” Shiloh said from behind the sprawling leaves of the plant. The doorman slowly blinked at him. His wrinkly face peered out from his stiff, emerald suit like a turtle from its shell.
“Friend or family?” he croaked. He sounded even older than he looked. Shiloh frowned.
“I have a delivery.”
“No solicitors,” the little old man said in his little old voice. Shiloh readjusted the weight of the pot, almost spilling it in the process. His fingers felt like they might break off against the freezing terracotta.
“No, no. I’m not a solicitor,” Shiloh said, “I have a delivery for Mrs. Washburn.”
“Mrs. Washburn didn’t say she was expecting any sort of delivery today.”
Shiloh gritted his teeth and tried to maintain a level head as the plant continued to weigh down his freezing limbs. “That’s because she didn’t order it,” he said in condescending slowness as his patience ebbed, “someone sent it as a surprise.”
The doorman narrowed his beady little eyes on Shiloh. He was ready to pass judgment when a young woman in a long, gray coat shuffled past them.
“Good afternoon, Gary,” she said in passing.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Washburn,” he said and opened the door for her.
Shiloh lunged toward the door. “Hey, wait!” Again, the weight of the plant shifted suddenly toward the edge of his grasp. He straightened and tightened his grip. Mrs. Washburn turned and looked at Shiloh through the door, her eyes wide with fear.
“This is for you!” he said loudly. She cracked open the door but stayed safely behind it. A waft of warm air kissed Shiloh’s frozen face.
“What’s that?”
“The plant,” he said, stretching his neck to try and see her over it, “it’s for you.”
Mrs. Washburn smiled brightly, “Oh, oh! How wonderful. Come in, come in,” she said and waved Gary to the side. With her permission, he opened the door for Shiloh, though not wide enough that it kept the leaves of the plant from brushing against it. A shriveled leaf flew down to the lobby’s polished linoleum floor.
“Sorry about Gary,” Mrs. Washburn said once the door closed behind them. Shiloh took a deep breath as he was finally enveloped by warm air. He spotted the elevator and waddled toward it. “Oh,” Mrs. Washburn said sheepishly, “the elevator is out of service.” Shiloh nudged a leaf out of his face with his chin so he could get a better look at the slight Mrs. Washburn. No way she was getting a pot that size upstairs. “Sorry,” she said with a wince.
“All part of the job.” The words came out choked. “What floor?”
Her wince deepened into an apologetic frown, “Fifteenth.”
Shiloh closed his eyes and nodded, “Welp,” he sighed, “lead the way.” He followed the sound of her heels clicking to the tight door that led to the even tighter stairway. He glanced down the dark shaft of the stairwell for a moment as they ascended, and couldn’t help but imagine the plant plummeting over the edge of it. Would it stay in its pot? Or flip, the weight of the pot flying down into the blackness while the plant floated helplessly downward after its former home.
“I can’t express how sorry I am,” Mrs. Washburn said, herself winded. She’d taken off her coat about halfway. Shiloh’s Nora’s Flora windbreaker never seemed to break the wind all that much when he was outside, but his sweat-soaked body was turning it into a sauna with every step.
“It’s quite all right, ma’am,” Shiloh said between pants, “it’s all part of the job.”
When they finally reached her apartment, Mrs. Washburn opened the door and gasped. “Richy!”
Shiloh strained his neck over the plant to find a man on the couch and a woman tangled up with him. Very tangled. They were as hot and sweaty as Shiloh.
“Miranda,” the man said as he shoved the other woman away. She tumbled off the couch and onto the rug with a thud. “Oh, jeez, Miranda. Lemme explain–”
From the doorway, Shiloh wondered if he could just set the plant down anywhere.
“I’m so sorry, I—” the other woman began.
“Out!” Miranda shouted, throwing a finger toward the doorway where Shiloh was standing haplessly. He stumbled out of the way and further into the apartment. The plant tipped a little in his grasp.
The other woman shook in panic as she struggled to pull her tight jeans up her sweaty legs, threw her shirt on, and collected the rest of her clothes in a random bundle, clutching it to her chest like a baby. She scrambled for the door and shoved past Shiloh. He swayed as she pushed past, and this time the plant went almost wholly sidewise. Shiloh barely pulled it from the cusp of disaster as some of the soil and decorative stones in the pot clinked onto the floor.
The door swung shut behind Shiloh, and he flinched as it sealed him in the apartment with the couple.
“Miranda, listen,” Richy said, still naked. Shiloh hoped that one of them would notice him soon so he could be dismissed. The only thing near the door was a coatrack, no end table or bench to set the plant on, and it wasn’t quite tall enough to leave on the floor. “It’s not what you think.”
“I don’t have to think, Richy, I saw plenty!”
“Come on, Miranda, that was just—it was just—” Richy stuttered. Shiloh was readying himself to shuffle for the kitchen counter, set the pot down, and make a run for it when Richy noticed him. “Well, Miranda, who is this? You’re bringing guys home!”
Miranda looked over her shoulder at Shiloh, still hidden behind the plant, though not as invisible as he would like to be. “It’s the flower delivery guy!”
Richy’s red face scrunched up, “I didn’t send you any flowers. Whose sending you flowers?”
“I don’t know Richy. Certainly not you.” Miranda huffed and began searching the plant for a tag. Shiloh tried to rotate the plant to give her an easier time, but the more he moved the more unsure his grip became. Finally, Miranda found the tag.
“Oh dear,” she said sheepishly.
“What? Is it from your secret lover?” Richy said, standing up to see for himself. Shiloh leaned back so he could take the whole weight of the plant against his chest and spine.
“This is for Mrs. Washburne.”
“Right,” Shiloh said, his voice strained, “that’s you.”
“No. Mrs. Washburne with an e. We’re Washburn W-a-s-h-b-u-r-n with no E. Mrs. Washburne with an E used to live on the second floor, but she moved away.”
“Mrs. Washburne on the second floor died,” Richy corrected.
“No, she—” Miranda rolled her eyes at the ceiling, “whatever the case, Mrs. Washburne with an E isn’t around here anymore. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Shiloh said, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead.
“And you walked all the way up here.”
“Really, it’s all right.” His shoulders were tight. If he could set the plant down for just a moment to catch his breath, he could make it back down the stairs. More than anything, he wanted to be out of the apartment. He began to pivot back toward the door.
“Let me get that for you, son,” Richy said and leaped for the door. He jumped too fast and bumped Shiloh on the shoulder. The muscles in his arms seized to keep his feet balanced, but the plant was beyond saving.
It happened in slow motion. The pot slid from his grasp into the cruel hands of gravity, and they sent it plummeting down, down, down to the apartment’s expensive marble floors. The terracotta never stood a chance. It shattered into a rain of burnt-orange fragments. For just a moment, the dirt held its shape, and then it too collapsed into a mushy pile of black earth, the decorative rocks along with it. The worst part, worse by far, was the beautiful plant. As much as Shiloh despised it when the wide leaves were in his face, tickling his nose and obstructing his vision, seeing those leaves fall into lifelessness on the cold floor was almost more than he could take. His knees buckled, and he feigned as though he intended to catch it, but it was far too late. He fell to his knees before the destroyed plant, fragments of dirt and leaves piled up around them like the sea against a shore. The sound of the pot shattering rang in his ears like funeral bells.
“Oh shit,” Richy said, “oh man, I am so sorry.” Richy and Miranda stared down at Shiloh. Shiloh stared down at what was once the plant. “I am so—”
Shiloh put a hand up. “It’s all right, sir,” he said lifelessly. No cheery service voice could cover the pain in his voice. “Happens all the time. Just part of the job.” The words tasted as bitter as they sounded.
Richy picked his pants up from where he and the other women had left them, pooled unceremoniously beside the couch. He began to dig for his wallet.
“Let me pay for it.”
“No,” Shiloh said hollowly, “it was my bad.”
Slowly, Shiloh stood up. “Do you folks have a broom and dustpan I can use to clean this mess up?”
Shiloh mournfully swept up the remnants of the plant. The only sounds were Richy finally shuffling to get dressed and the plastic-on-plastic thunk of Shiloh emptying the dustpan into the garbage bin. When he finished, the floor was spotless, as though there had never been a plant in the first place.
“Guess I’ll be going then,” Shiloh said through a groan as he stood up.
“Have a nice day,” Miranda said with a tight smile.
“Stay warm,” Richy added. Shiloh nodded to both of them and left the apartment. He would have to call Nora’s Flora and tell the boss what happened. The grumpy old crone would be furious. It was a lovely plant.
The other woman was sitting in the stairwell, half her clothing balled in her lap, crying softly.
"Are you all right?” Shiloh asked, standing above her.
“I’m a homewrecker,” she said. Dark lines of mascara ran down her face and met at her chin. She sniffled and looked up at him. “I should have known he was married. Their home was so nicely decorated.
“Eh.” Shiloh shrugged and sat beside her, “I think it could use a plant.”