Yesterday morning, a half-dozen roses were delivered to apartment 3, which, if you will recall, is not where I live. They were tucked halfway into the bushes that grow in mulchy ground between the cement porches. I took a peek at them: four red, one white, one pink, lots of baby's breath. No mailing address, no return address.
Tonight, they were still there by the door.
I am concerned for the flowers. Temperatures have been down into the nether regions these past couple of nights - it ain't a fit night out for man nor beast. Or cut flowers. To be honest, shh, quietly: I want to take them. I want to bring them into my house and put them in a nice vase - I have a very pretty one - and smell them and pretend that they were for me. I will even leave a nice note saying that I was worried about the flowers, but they are safe and ready for retrieval upon knocking on the door of apartment 4.
I feel certain that this is a terrible idea.
So I will leave the flowers there to be cold and wilt, outside and lonely, while I wonder who sent them and who was supposed to receive them. I will make up melodramatic scenarios of heartbreak and unrequited love. In a few days, when they are still out there and getting ugly so you can't tell the four red from the one white and the one pink, I will feel sorry for not taking them. Now they sit outside as little frozen symbols of love's misunderstandings and miscommunications and missed opportunities.
Happy Valentine's Day.
No comments:
Post a Comment