The same guy has been asking me for 18 years if I will be his Valentine. For someone who once declared, “Valentine’s Day is a wife beater’s holiday,” the Professor sure has come a long way.
I knew he was crossing over from cynical old goat to a first-class Romeo about 12 years ago when we were living and working in San Francisco. Wanting to really surprise me, he decided he would craft an arrangement himself.
“I don’t want to receive a florist delivery in an ugly vase with a bunch of cheap ribbon and fern filler!” I reminded him as I was gathering my coat and computer that morning.
“I know. You like plain roses. Given to you in person.”
“Well, yes, but not some big long-stem mafia thing. I like the Victorian nosegays.”
The poor guy really tried. He bought a dozen beautiful red roses and then proceeded to cut them down and tear them apart, hoping to transform the prickly, bushy queens into a tight little bouquet.
“Your husband came in a while ago with a big bunch of flowers, but he’s been in the restroom, with them, for quite some time.”
“What?”
The receptionist gave me a shrug.
15 minutes later my husband emerged from the office toilets with sweat beads on his forehead and a handful of bald roses.
“I tried to make them how you like them, but it just kept getting worse and worse. I thought you would be happy if I got them from the downtown flower market. I know how you love flowers from there. But I don’t think I did a good job. Here. Happy Valentine’s Day.” He thrust the symbol of love at me.
From the corner of my eye, I saw the receptionist slink off to clear the newspaper and floral debris from the waste bins. My husband was standing there looking so earnest that he honestly could have handed me celery stalks and it would have been just perfect.
“I love them. It’s wonderful not having thorns, or leaves, or anything, really, to distract the eye from their beauty!”
We laughed so hard I think I cried. The ladies in the office may have been thinking, “Wow, she is really mad.” Or, “Gee, what a lucky girl.”
Well, it doesn’t really matter what they thought, does it? Because guess what?
He’s mine.
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