A few months ago, my favorite florist, Amy Merrick, had a pop up at Steven Alan. (Favorite florist, is that even a thing? Whatever, blame Instagram.) I hightailed it over to Tribeca on a weekend—on a WEEKEND—to get an arrangement. I named a price and she created the most GORGEOUS, MAGICAL bouquet that has ever been seen. I took it home on the subway, obviously, and people open mouth gawked at the beauty.
And it died as it lived, getting prettier as it drooped further to each side. Until its spirit moved on. RIP O you flowers, who warmed my cold, black, not-at-all melodramatic heart.