I have been here before. On this patch of cold pavement, ebbing out of a 10-hour day, looking in, and feeling just like this: delighted. Because I have just finished class and I am standing outside the plastic windows of the streetcorner flower stand and there is a $20 bill in my pocket and I can have whatever I want.

But what do I want? Something that smells good. Those freesia look lovely, but they have fooled me before. Their scent only rises in the warmth, and I have taken them home only to be disappointed when they did not emit. The hyacinth are reliably fragrant, but these here look tired and spindly.

So let's go for gorgeous. The hydrangea are woozily alluring, but their big puffy heads need some kind of girding. Maybe stud them with white lillies? No, something else, something with lift, oh, do they have bells of Ireland? That rilled green thrust would be perfect. But there are none here.

Now my head is turned by the sign on this metal bucket "Daffodile." In the cluster of tightly furled buds I can see it, see them blossom and unwrap their long yellow jaws, blink their scaly yellow eyelids, show their predatory able teeth to the succulant tulips next door. This is making me think of yellow now, and yes, yes please, I have my answer.