ninanevermore

Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about the fact that, for the 17th time in a row, I got roses in a vase for Valentine's Day. I'm touched by the way he held them out to me this morning, like a schoolboy presenting a bouquet of posies to the girl next door. They are lovely, a mix of red and white long-stemmed beauties.

If only I had the heart to tell him, after almost 2 decades years together, that I don't like cut flowers. It's too late, I'm afraid. After all this time, after all this money wasted on flowers, I fear it would devastate him. He's been so proud of each bouquet he's ever given me. I know him. He didn't just walk in, grab the first flowers he saw, toss them on the counter, and walk out. He is an aviation mechanic and inspector, and so he is thorough and has an eye for detail. He looked at them all, chose the most perfect roses he could find, and even arraigned them in the vase himself. I've watched him pick gifts for other people, so I know how he does this. I also know how he thinks: roses are pretty, and he thinks I am pretty, too, so he buys me roses.

While I dislike the flowers themselves, I find myself blushing at the compliment they represent: after 17 years together, he still thinks I'm pretty. That knowledge alone is all the Valentine I needed.

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