Every Valentine’s Day, Steve sends flowers me flowers at work.
This year, I’m as big as a whale and moody enough to be in an asylum. On Thursday night, I decided I would leave work early on Friday to come home and finish painting Holden’s room. Steve said, “uh oh” and when I asked him what he meant he said “never mind, it might still work out.” After some proding, I found out that he had ordered flowers to be sent to me at work.
I blew up. Lost it. “Why would you send me flowers? I’m a temp! I have to walk two blocks to my car! What a waste of money!” Steve quickly did damage control and called the florist and got my flowers rerouted to our house.
I stewed. Fucking flowers for fucking Valentine’s Day. The nerve! I was a real bitch about the whole thing. Honestly, if I could separate myself from myself enough to think objectively, I would wonder why anyone did anyone nice for me ever. Why bother? I’m an ungrateful asshole.
On Friday afternoon, I was painting Holden’s room when the florist’s delivery van pulled up. I accepted the flowers and when I read the sweet note Steve had written I teared up. I don’t deserve someone like him. He is a much better person than I am. And I guess I really do like to get flowers on Valentine’s day. It’s sweet and thoughtful and reminds me that love makes us all better people.