The tin buckets that lined Ampersand's walls were positively overflowing with billy balls, bunches of lavender, and chartreuse lily buds not quite ready to bloom. The family-owned flower shop in the Mission was a haven of peculiar flowers hiding behind two tiffany blue doors, startling and unmistakable in a street with whitewashed facades. Wrought iron and brass sconces decorated the walls, offsetting the rich blooms and freshly cut stems that covered the floor.
Anne wore striped silk that cascaded from her halter in stiff folds, its printed gradients turning into brushstrokes from a distance. I captured her sinking into the darkness, the light just catching her cheekbones and the silvery lavender in her hair. She assumed her role as floral undertaker, languidly waiting for the shadows to lift and the rosebuds to bloom from their quietude, to ripen into rose hips.