Because I Felt Like It

Title is both the title of the piece and the excuse as to why I'm posting not on my day. Also, Charles said he might not be able. Also, I missed my week two weeks ago.


She loves Valentine's Day. She can't explain it, but something in the air just smells sweeter, something in everyone's eyes just sparkles brighter, and there's a distinctive pink shade just under the blue when the sun sets.

He hates Valentine's Day.

So when he shows up on her doorstep with a single-stemmed rose in hand, he's in a foul mood, and not even trying to hide his frown. She opens it with a bounce in her step, after having just read the uplifting story of the couple celebrating their 80 year anniversary in the newspaper. She spots the rose, lets her gaze wander onto each petal, then raises her head to look at him. Really look at him. "Good morning to you, too," she says quietely.

He shuffles.

"That's a really nice rose," she says in the same quiet voice, unwilling to ask if it's for her. It wouldn't be the first time she was approached with a romantic notion that was in fact a practice run for someone else, equally special, but in a different way. She plays with her fingers nervously, not itching to reach forward and grasp the rose, but just unaware of simply where to put them. She pats her hips. "Do you want to come in?" she motions behind her.

He is very, very still, still staring at her, blankly. He shakes his head.

She nods. "Um," she licks her lips, her gaze still lingering on the rose. She tears away and looks down the street. What a beautiful morning. "It's early," she remarks, seeing her neighbors getting out to walk their dogs, waving at their friends, a bounce in their steps as well. She looks back at him. "What are you doing here?"

He shifts slightly in his step, and raises his arm to offer her the rose.

She takes a deep breath, for fear something will knock the wind out of her. Raises her own hand gingerly and clasps her fingers around the stem, ignoring the prick on her forefinger. "For me?" she asks the obvious.

He lets go, knowing it is safe in her hands. Turns around and shuffles down the steps, mumbling about the stupidity of Valentine's Day, its Hallmark value, the ridiculous expectations it places on people.

She smiles. Smells the rose. Good morning to you, too.