Pennyworth

Horace and Agnes Pennyworth delighted in their pragmatism, and they wouldn't have it any other way. They were the last people you'd expect to be swayed by anything flashy or frivolous - they just didn't buy into the nonsense of frippery.

It was on a fine spring afternoon that young Horace, an accountant, and Agnes strolled along the busy downtown street. Horace had just been promoted, and Agnes thought a leisurely stroll seemed fitting. Arms linked, they weaved their way through the crowds of window shoppers, giving the window displays little attention. Horace winced at the thought of people so spellbound by the shiny and new.

The Pennyworths had everything they needed, and what they didn't need never crossed their minds. A waste of money, Horace would say, to spend your hard-earned money on such non-necessities, a flashy this or a fantastic that. Agnes simply chuckled. Their subtle celebration suited them just fine.

As they neared the corner of Heritage Avenue and Misty Lane, their usual turn-around point, Horace remained steadfast. Agnes, however, felt a small tug. She wanted to give Horace a gift for his accomplishment, a simple gesture to show how much she appreciated his hard work. Then she saw it.

"Oh, Horace, take a look at these flowers," Agnes said, pointing to a bouquet of roses in the window. "Let's have a look inside, shall we?"

"Flowers?" A preposterous idea, he thought in reaction to his wife's rather unusual suggestion. At first, Horace thought Agnes must be joking. But her uncharacteristic finger pointing told him otherwise. For a moment, Horace wrestled in disbelief. Was she really interested in those flowers? Or was it simply a momentary lapse in judgment? It was so un-Pennyworth.

"Come on, Horace... it'll be fun. Let's get a little something to celebrate your promotion?" Agnes said, taking hold of Horace's hands. Horace looked, well, like his feathers had been ruffled. He loosened his collar. In his mind, Horace was saying, Flowers? Is there anything more non-essential than flowers? They'll just wilt and die. So what do you get for your hard-earned money, then? But that isn't what he said aloud. "Well," he simply said, "flowers would brighten up the apartment."

Agnes had stepped out on a limb, and Horace was not about to break it. Her pouting lips and puppy-dog eyes were just too much for Horace to bear.

The door chimed as they entered the flower shop. Both were expecting a simple transaction. But this was no ordinary flower shop, as they would soon discover; it was a flower shop that catered to those in search of the mysterious, exotic, and the utterly absurd.

"Good day, sir," said Horace to the florist, a man with an air of secret wisdom and a rather remarkable mustache. "We'd like to buy some flowers." Horace exchanged a hesitant gaze with Agnes. His greeting seemed too formal just then.

"Ah," replied the florist. He stroked his mustache as if contemplating the meaning of the Pennyworths' presence before him. "You've come to the right place. We have a fine selection of the extraordinary and the metaphysical."

Horace, who had come in search of roses or perhaps tulips, was not sure how to respond to this. The prospect of purchasing metaphysical flowers left him somewhat bemused.

"I see," he said cautiously. "Well, what can you recommend?"

The florist glanced from Horace to Agnes, "Follow me," he said with a nod. Horace and Agnes followed the florist to a corner of the shop where a single, peculiar plant stood. It was a curious-looking thing, with blooms that appeared to alternate between the colors of the rainbow and leaves that seemed to whisper softly when touched.

The florist pointed at the plant. "This," the florist said with an air of great importance, "is the Allegorical Anemone."

Horace threw a sideways glance at Agnes, who seemed to react as if someone had just fed her a sour lemon, and then looked at the florist. "Oh," said Horace, who had never heard of such a flower. "And what does it do?"

"It doesn't do," the florist replied, "it is."

"Isn't that true of most flowers?" Agnes interjected. The pragmatism of her comment pleased Horace. She wasn't buying what the florist was peddling.

"Indeed," he said. "But this one is what it isn't, and isn't what it is."

Horace frowned, the weight of this botanical enigma bearing down upon him. He looked at Agnes, whose expression seemed to share his disappointment. Was this normal behavior for a florist? "So it's a paradoxical flower?"

The florist appeared taken aback by the skepticism. "In a manner of speaking," he finally said.

"You see, it symbolizes the duality of human nature, the relentless struggle between the id and the ego, and our pursuit of meaning in a world balanced between chaos and order."

Horace looked at Agnes, and then he looked back at the florist. They had come to buy flowers, not existential dilemmas.

"I think," said Agnes, taking her husband's arm, "that we'll just take some daisies, please."

The florist, visibly disappointed, couldn't resist a final attempt at profundity. "You know," he said, "the daisy is the flower of innocence, a symbol of the unspoiled purity that lies at the heart of every human being."

Horace, who by now was rather tired of floral allegories, considered leaving, but decided against it. Instead, he said, "That's all well and good, but we just want some flowers to brighten up our living room."

The florist looked at Horace, then at Agnes. "Very well," he said, "but remember, the world is not always what it seems, and neither are flowers." With that, he turned and walked off, plucking a bunch of daisies from a nearby vase. "Daisies it is, then," he said. He waved his hands, urging Horace and Agnes to follow him. "Chalk one up for the tried and true," he said.

Horace and Agnes followed the florist to a hidden alcove, where a small table was situated under a dim light. The table was cluttered with ribbons, wrapping paper, and assorted charms and stickers.

"How shall we wrap them?" he said, musing aloud.

For what felt like too long, Horace and Agnes stood watching the florist have his way with the bunch of daisies. Horace's shoulders dropped, and Agnes blinked continually.

Placing the daisies on the table, the florist studied the bunch of daisies, then got to work, wrapping the bouquet in golden organza and securing it with a satin ribbon. He added a few glittering butterfly stickers and a dainty silver heart charm etched with the words 'Love Blooms.'

"Well," said the florist finally, "that's that." He handed the dazzling bouquet of daisies to Agnes.

"They're lovely," Agnes said, accepting the daisies. She and the florist exchanged amused smiles, acknowledging their bizarre encounter. Horace, still perplexed, offered a half-smile.

The door to the flower shop swung open, and a shaft of streetlight spilled in, carried on a cool breeze that wafted up to Horace and Agnes. "It does that sometimes when the wind picks up," the florist explained. Agnes gently squeezed Horace's hand, signaling it was time to leave. In her other hand, she clutched the bouquet of dazzling daisies.

As Horace and Agnes left the shop, the Allegorical Anemone began to wilt, as if in sympathy with the florist's unrequited passion for profundity. And the daisies, unburdened by the weight of symbolism, bloomed brighter than ever as they graced the young couple's home.