A Bouquet of Love by Janice Thompson

don’t pick up those cones, I will call the police. This is a zoning violation. You are affecting my lunch crowd.”
    Babbas puffed his chest and squared his shoulders. “I’ll show you a lunch crowd!”
    Laz pointed at our shop devoid of customers. “Starting when? I don’t see a lunch crowd. All I see is a pathetic excuse for a sandwich shop and a grown man wearing tights.” He doubled over in laughter and the cane slipped out of his hand.
    â€œThese aren’t tights!” Babbas pointed down at his Santorini-blue tights. “They are . . . are . . .”
    â€œSkinny jeans?” my sister Eva offered from our side of the street.
    This got another laugh out of Laz. He reached down to get his cane, then with a wave of his hand, he muttered something in Italian and walked back to his side of the street. “I’ll give you five minutes and then I call the police,” he called out in final warning. “They will set you straight.”
    Babbas walked our way and snagged the dishrag from Mama’s hands. He wiped his sweaty face, straightened his twisted tights, and then signaled for Hannah to start snapping photos of him. Minutes later, just as an officer arrived, they wrapped things up.
    Turned out the officer, a jovial fellow named O’Reilly, loved Greek food. Babbas invited him inside our unopened restaurant for a tour and a free gyro sandwich. “As a thank-you for protecting our community from crazy people!” Babbas proclaimed.
    O’Reilly didn’t argue. He followed my father into the kitchen and minutes later emerged with the largest gyro I’d ever seen. Go figure. Judging from the loopy grin on the fellow’s face, we’d be seeing more of him. He gave my father a wave, thanked him, and headed off on his way.
    Mama paused in the open doorway of our shop to give Parma John’s a final look. Then she offered me a weak smile and said, “I think that went well.”
    Mama might cover her feelings with a fake grin, but I knew better. Situations like this broke her heart. She wanted friends. Needed friends. Especially in a new home. But Babbas’s erratic behavior always seemed to isolate her from those most likely to connect with us—our neighbors. Sure, we’d eventually earn the respect of some customers, but customers and friends were two different things. Wouldn’t it be lovely to sit and visit with the folks next door or across the street?Now we’d never get that chance, thanks to the man in tights. Er, skinny jeans.
    Mama did what she always did when she needed to pacify herself. She went into the kitchen and baked. A couple of hours later we had several large trays of baklava and a few other yummy-looking desserts ready to sell on opening day. My mother’s mood appeared to have lifted with the process.
    She offered me a tantalizing piece of baklava from the plate in her hand. I gobbled it down in no time with a dreamy “Yum!”
    â€œThank you, sweet girl.” She looked around the empty shop, then back at me. “Where is your father? Still bribing the police force?”
    â€œNo.” I couldn’t help but chuckle. “He’s upstairs. Said he needed to work on the computer.”
    â€œThe computer?” Her painted-on brows arched in perfect unison. “Interesting.”
    â€œI know, right?” Babbas never used it, at least to my knowledge. Might be fascinating to see him try.
    Mama climbed the steps up to our apartment, still carrying the plate of baklava, and I followed behind her. She stopped as we reached the living room, and I nearly ran into her from behind.
    â€œWhat are you doing, Mama?” I asked.
    â€œAs I live and breathe,” my mother whispered as she gestured to the living room on our right. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
    I followed her pointed finger and saw Babbas seated on the sofa, laptop in hand. Open. I