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I remember the first time I bought my girlfriend flowers. It was years ago, and she still has the roses I bought that day – no they’re not currently a solid mass of mulch.
They don’t resemble fertiliser at all.
She kept them, dried them out and pressed them beneath the legs of her desk. They were red roses, I think. Or perhaps they were yellow – they now closer resemble brown.
When I first presented them, it was an ordinary day. There wasn’t anything special really, nothing that marked them as unique. It wasn’t Valentine’s Day, nor was it on our anniversary. I do remember briefly contemplating passing flowers while we were in the city – to laugh as she carried the bouquet all day, but no.
The weather was typical Melbourne. It was warm, for a bit. The wind was strong, and the winds filtered the day from cloudy to sun – where the shade was an icy chill, and outside of it, it boiled over.
She often had asked me before – why do you never by me flowers? Her friends had bought her flowers (male friends! Jerks), I think they did it because they knew I hadn’t.
I suppose if it wasn’t for that, I would never have bought her flowers.
When I brought her flowers, it was in a parking lot. It was growing dark, and it was definitely at that moment cold.
She was particularly sad that day, perhaps I was waiting for a moment like that? Something to make them special.
You should have seen it, I flourished them in her face. The way her mouth moved, and her eyes quivered in shock. We had been together three years, and it was the first moment I brought her flowers – and then everything morphed. It’s always surreal seeing the sadness lift.
Flowers do die, and its pressed remains don’t resemble much but love doesn’t.
That’s something special.