Roses

An innocuous call from the receptionist, asking me to come to the front desk to pick up a package that had come for me interrupted my afternoon, and I don’t think I ever quite got back on track.

Two dozen red roses, carefully nestled between layers of paper lay in a long box, with a vase at the bottom. One of my work friends helped me open it and got the roses out. We giggled some. I blushed a lot.

Never have I had flowers delivered to me before, in a box or otherwise. Rarely have I been given flowers at all by the men in my life – I think my high school best friend and I used to give each other flowers more frequently than I’ve gotten them from any significant other.

Six weeks into a new relationship makes valentine’s an awkward holiday, and we’d agreed on no gifts. He sent me flowers at work. I baked him brownies. We’re going to dinner in half an hour, and every time I see these roses on my desk or catch a whiff of their fragrance, all I think is how excited I am to see him.

He makes me feel special, valued, cherished. Not just with roses on valentines, but with his words and actions each time I see him.

I like this one.