Bouquet held over tattooed arms

The sea wind took my order sheet clean off the bench this morning, so forgive the smudges. I finished the pier bouquet at last. Thirty white lisianthus cut before the dew burned off, eucalyptus dragged up from the lower terrace because the grey-green has to go in first or the whole thing sits wrong, and sprigs of the blue thistle Gran planted against the wall, the ones that rattle when you shake them. Mum would have called it fussy. I called it finished.

Mr Pellow's girl had asked for something that looked picked off a cliff rather than bought from a van, and that is exactly what it was. I bound the stems with twine from the shed, tucked three echeveria in at the base because they look like little closed fists holding the bunch together, and kept one rose a shade greener than the rest so the eye has somewhere to rest. Gran always said a bouquet needs one thing that doesn't quite belong.

Afterwards I stood on the old harbour wall with the crate of offcuts and watched the tide come in over the slipway. A gull walked along the top of the wall as if it had paid for the place. I thought about Gran's rule, and about how nobody will ever know which stem I chose on purpose. They'll just say it smelt of the coast.

I've kept the last thistle head for your windowsill. Don't let the cat near it.

Love, Tess