Brighton Pride
"During Brighton Pride, florist Rosa helps a lost parade-goer find his way. She shows him that the celebration extends beyond the streets."
Pride Brighton was organized chaos in the best possible way—rainbow flags on every surface, music from three different directions, people dressed in everything from ball gowns to body paint. I'd come down from London with friends who'd promptly vanished into the crowd, leaving me with a dead phone and no sense of direction.
"You look lost, amor." The voice came from a woman selling flower crowns from a stall beside the road. Her accent was Spanish layered over Brighton, and her smile was warm enough to compete with the August sun.
"Completely lost. My friends disappeared somewhere near the clock tower."
"The clock tower." She laughed—full-bodied, joyful. "That's in the opposite direction from where you're heading. Come, sit, have some water. The parade's not going anywhere."
Her stall was a explosion of color—flower crowns in rainbow arrangements, boutonnieres, corsages, all designed for the celebration. She was round and glowing in a sundress covered in roses, dark hair piled high with real flowers woven through it.
"I'm Rosa," she said, handing me a bottle of water. "Yes, like the flower. My mother thought it was funny."
"I'm Michael. No botanical significance."
"Michael." She tested the name. "You're from London?"
"Is it that obvious?"
"The shoes. The watch. The way you look slightly nervous around so much joy." She wasn't being cruel—just observant. "Brighton takes some getting used to."
"I'm not nervous about the joy. Just the being lost part."
"Then you're already doing better than most visitors." She gestured at the crowd flowing past. "Half of them are lost. The other half pretend they know where they're going. The secret is accepting that getting lost is part of the experience."
I ended up staying at her stall for an hour, then two. She had a constant stream of customers, but between sales, we talked—about London, about Brighton, about her flower shop in the Lanes, about why Pride mattered even to people who weren't personally celebrating.
"It's about love," she explained, weaving a crown of orange marigolds. "Not just romantic love. Love of self. Love of community. Love of life." She placed the crown on my head. "There. Now you're part of it."
"I didn't pay for this."
"Consider it a welcome gift." Her smile did something complicated to my chest. "Now, do you want to find your friends, or would you rather help me sell flowers for the rest of the afternoon?"
I helped her sell flowers. It was strange—I was an accountant, not remotely creative, and yet something about being in that stall, surrounded by color and celebration, made me feel more alive than I had in months. Maybe years.
When the parade ended and the evening crowds thinned, Rosa closed up shop with practiced efficiency.
"Drink?" she asked. "I know a place that's quiet. Relatively."
The place was a rooftop bar with a view of the sea, fairy lights strung overhead, residual Pride energy in every corner. We drank sangria she said wasn't as good as her mother's, and the conversation deepened in the way it does when two strangers realize they're not strangers anymore.
"Can I ask you something?" I said eventually.
"You can ask."
"Why did you invite me to stay? You must meet hundreds of people during Pride."
"Thousands." She sipped her sangria. "But most of them aren't looking for what you're looking for."
"What am I looking for?"
"Connection." Her hand found mine on the table. "Real connection. The kind that doesn't come from apps or setups or meeting someone's expectations." She squeezed. "I could see it in you. The loneliness under the nice watch and the London job."
"That transparent?"
"To someone who pays attention." She stood. "My flat's two streets away. The sangria's better there. If you're interested."
Her flat above the flower shop smelled like a garden—roses and jasmine and something citrus that might have been her shampoo. She poured actual good sangria while I examined the plants that covered every surface.
"You live in a greenhouse," I observed.
"I live surrounded by life. There's a difference." She handed me a glass. "To Pride. To finding what you're looking for."
"To getting lost."
She kissed me with sangria-sweet lips, and the kiss deepened into something that the day had been building toward. Her body in my arms was all warmth and softness, curves that the sundress had promised and more. She smelled of flowers and sunshine and something fundamentally, wonderfully alive.
"The bedroom has fewer plants," she murmured against my mouth.
"Lead the way."
The bedroom did have fewer plants—but still some, because of course. She undressed with the same easy confidence she brought to everything, revealing skin the color of honey and a body that could have inspired fertility goddesses.
"You're staring."
"You're worth staring at."
"Flatterer." But she pulled me down onto a bed covered in soft cotton, and then there was no more talking.
We made love surrounded by greenery and fairy lights, her body moving against mine like we'd rehearsed this for years. She was vocal, enthusiastic, demanding in ways that made me better than I usually was. And when she came, crying out something in Spanish, I felt like I'd finally found the celebration I'd traveled to Brighton for.
"Stay," she said afterward. "Not forever. Just tonight. Tomorrow I'll show you the real Brighton. The parts tourists don't see."
I stayed. She showed me. Hidden gardens and sea caves and a pier that was different in the early morning. We ate breakfast in a cafe she'd been visiting for twenty years, and she introduced me to everyone as "my friend from London who got lost and found his way."
I went back to London eventually. But not for long. Something about Brighton had gotten into me—the celebration, the acceptance, the woman who sold flower crowns and saw loneliness under nice watches.
I work remotely now. The flat above the flower shop has room for two. And every Pride, I help Rosa sell crowns to lost tourists, hoping they'll find what I found—not just direction, but connection, not just a celebration, but a home.
Some people come to Pride for the parade. I came looking for friends and found something better. A florist who weaves life out of petals and stems, and taught me that getting lost is just the first step toward being found.