The shop opened precisely at nine o’clock every day, except on the weekends when it opened at noon. Sunlight streamed through the bay windows, reflecting off of green leaves and ripening berries. The smell of fresh soil permeated the air, adding to the peaceful, lively atmosphere that the shop seemed to have. It was a speck of green in a sea of grey— stubborn life growing among the concrete and steel of the buildings surrounding it. The engraved wooden plaque outside read ‘The Last Greenhouse.’
Thomas wiped down the plexiglass in front of the register and made sure it was clear as the clock steadily ticked on, getting closer and closer to opening time. They flitted around the store, watering can in hand, and their smile free. They were adjusting some of the displays by the window as the doors automatically unlocked and slid open. Thomas quietly made their way back to the register, pulling on their mask that was delicately embroidered with the shop’s name. No one was waiting outside but Thomas did not mind. They were content to sit in their peaceful little shop until the sun set.
Their first customer came in around lunchtime. Privately, Thomas called him ‘The Accountant,’ since the man bore an ID for the accounting firm diagonally across from the shop. The Accountant was always in a white oxford shirt, dark slacks, a disposable blue mask, a red tie. He was a regular at The Last Greenhouse— his shoulders were always slumped, his eyes were bloodshot and exhausted, and the air around him seemed almost palpable with stress. Stepping into the shop was the only time when he looked at peace.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Thomas said. The Accountant offered a tired nod and shuffled over into the corner, taking a seat on one of the cleverly hidden benches beneath the apple tree and breathing deeply. The Accountant usually stayed like that for at least half an hour before pulling out a plain sandwich and quietly eating it before heading out the doors. The Accountant never bought anything— Thomas chalked it up to him coming in around lunch— which would not really make him a customer. However, The Last Greenhouse was not only a shop, it was a refuge for anyone who needed a moment to breathe.
Normal workdays were hard, with hours upon hours of tedious work, eyes growing strained and tired from staring at the computer screen, lower backs aching from terrible posture— they could go on.
Thomas was glad they did not have to deal with that. Instead, they felt dirt underneath their hands and hard-earned sweat dripping down their temples. They went to bed tired but satisfied and woke up with energy and a will to live.
They blinked and glanced towards The Accountant’s spot and noted that the man was gone. Thomas checked the clock and found that it was five minutes to one. They would need to check the plants soon and harvest the fruit that had grown.
Thomas strolled down the rows, a sectioned-off berry basket in their hands, and spotted a splotch of white within the greens.
“Can I help you?” they asked, stepping up to The Accountant. The man looked over at them and blinked. Now that they were closer, Thomas noticed that the Accountant’s eyebags looked more like tattoos and his oxford shirt was wrinkled and very obviously slept in.
“What plant is this?” The Accountant asked softly. Thomas glanced at the plant and picked off a small handful of the berries.
“Blueberry,” they replied, holding their hand out to him. The man hesitantly took a berry, quickly pulled down his mask, and popped it into his mouth. Thomas placed the rest of the berries into the basket. The Accountant shut his eyes for a moment, savoring the taste.
“I haven’t had one of these in a long time,” he whispered. “Especially fresh.”
Thomas smiled and hoped it translated through their mask. The Accountant’s eyes crinkled in response and they took that as a win.
“I personally think we carry the best fresh fruit here,” Thomas said, carefully picking another handful and placing them into the basket. “Not that the market is all that big but still.”
“I don’t know much about plants but I think you do too,” The Accountant replied. They fell silent for a moment before the Accountant broke it once more. “Can I tell you something?” he asked.
“Of course,” Thomas replied.
“Every time I step into your shop, it’s like a weight has been lifted off my chest and I can breathe,” he muttered, gently tracing the leaf of another plant. “I don’t want to leave.”
“You don’t have to,” Thomas said before they could rethink that sentence. The Accountant raised a brow and laughed. Thomas laughed with him. “I mean it,” they continued. “If you ever want to switch your life up, swing by and let me know.”
The Accountant shook his head. “Thank you for the offer,” he said. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“What’s your name?” Thomas asked. The Accountant stuck out his hand, chest slightly puffed out.
“Benjamin,” he replied. They took his hand and shook.
“Nice to meet you, Benjamin,” they said. “I’m Thomas.”
The Last Greenhouse: Explanation/Analysis
The world that I created for ‘The Last Greenhouse’ is one that values office work and white-collar jobs more than hands-on blue-collar ones. Technology has not advanced that much but automated locks in shops that run on a set schedule are a staple in most stores. Masks are still worn by most people, now for the sake of anonymity than protection from sickness. The Last Greenhouse is one of the last places that has fresh food since the rest of the world has moved to processed and fast food.
