This week’s prompt:

A florist, a class reunion, a book

A florist, a class reunion, a book
It was that time of year. Time for all the class reunions. Taylor could spot them a mile away. The middle-aged men who were geeks as high-schoolers would come in in their polo-shirts, and gym physiques, their expensively styled hair and the ghosts of past failures. It was always the same, no matter how suave and confident they seemed, no matter how fancy a cat sat at the curb, the reek of desperation always clung to them as they browsed the flower bouquets and tried vainly to remember if the prom queen like lilies or carnations better.
Taylor would smile and nod as the men would try to tell stories about how they “made it” and how all the jocks would be envious, but it was all for show. They would walk into the old school gymnasium, festooned with streamer and balloons just as it was for prom 20 years ago. They would clutch their little bouquet of flowers from Taylor’s shop and hope their hands were not too sweaty as they scanned the enormous room for that lost love, or missed chance, or whatever they were hoping for. Maybe they were smart and checked the little book at the cafeteria table with the white paper cover out front. Sure, they said they were just looking at how many people actually came! But in reality, they were trying to see if that one name was there yet.
Taylor knew it as sure as if it was the latest lifetime film. It happened every year.
They never came back to buy wedding flowers.