I bought the bouquet on impulse, as I walked through the underground labyrinth of halls and shops that surround my office building. The heavy aroma of life flourishing in winter, a scent captured and held richly thick in the stale dry air of the complex, caught my wandering attention and unconsciously drew my serious thoughts back toward home, evoking for me the woman who waited, anticipating my return. I imagined her smile, her warm needy embrace, and without realizing why my thoughts had taken such a romantic turn, I looked up to face the dozens of dark blossoming rosebuds.
“Hey, Mal, what’ll it be?” asked Cecilia. The small florist with her thick mane of colored hair and bright eyes had sold me ten thousand flowers during the past decade, arming me for courtships, engagement,marriage and now this.
“My love is like a red, red rose,” I recited. Burns is one of those poets who always seemed thin and reedy, yet forever popping off my tongue.
“Sure thing,” Cecilia said. “Dozen? Boxed, bundled or delivered?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “I want to hand her a bouquet, when I walk in the door.”