Covent Garden Flowers; Tuesday [01/29].

[white_oleander]

Astrid had gotten up that morning almost in a faintly mystified daze that had stuck with her all the way through the day and into her shift at the flower shop, as if it had only just hit her well after the fact that she, Astrid Magnussen, lonely friendless weird little Astrid Magnussen, had actually cohosted a party, and people had actually come to it, and they seemed to have had a good time, and there was practically nothing that could bar it from being classified as an actual, genuine success.

Sure, the flowers in the shop today were placidly shifting through a variety of colors from one moment to the next and a few of them were artfully wilting and drooping over their vases like exports from some Dali-Monet fushion, but the fact of last night's party was easily the most surreal thing happening in her life just then.

It put her in a good mood. It put her in a great mood, actually, and it showed in the orders she fulfilled that had come in, and in the lengthly letter she was writing to her mother in her downtime, festooned with drawings and sketches of fortune cookies and eggrolls, tarot cards and a white kimono, cat-faced girls and the King of Wands and somehow the orderly chaos of a miasma of faces and voices and conversation.

Covent Garden is open!