On Friday evening after a long week, with plans to head over to a local pub for a cheeseburger and a nice cold beer, the handsome filmmaker arrived at my door, grinning coyly yet knowingly, hands and arms hidden behind his back. He quickly revealed two bouquets of flowers, some goldenrod gerbers and some raging violet daisies. Earlier that week, I had mentioned in passing an intense desire for spring, for flowers, and idly suggested to myself that I should pick some up, or perhaps merely pick some.
Beautifully surprised with the bright colors and sweet scent, that he had listened to my minor mumbling aside, that he had remembered it and then indeed took action, I was delighted. I have never received flowers from a gentleman before, something I believe I had also noted while grumbling earlier that week about the stubborn and persistent rain, the gray skies, the drenched sopping soil. Perhaps, though, that musing is misleading and a fallacy: I am not at all surprised that he listened to the minutest detail of our conversation, of my inner dialogue, able to read my slightest body language or facial expression, that he took the time to search for something that would bring me joy and an easy full smile, that he wanted nothing more than to see that smile and know he had been the cause for its extension across my lips in an anatomic simple harmonic motion, but I was surprised and caught a bit off guard with the lovely gesture.
The photographs, almost equally as lovely as the flowers themselves, are, naturally, courtesy of the dear filmmaker; after a long embrace, he helped me to arrange the bouquets across four empty wine bottles, as I am somehow without a proper glass flower vase, and they now grace the surface of my dining table.