Olalla trims the last stem, pins her hair up loosely and carries a single white rose onto the terrace as the orange blossom perfumes the air. “Forty bouquets today. Now I want something slow.”
Hola, guapo. The studio is cool, the terrace smells of orange blossom and I saved you a rose. Sit with me and tell me what you would put in a bouquet.
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