I’m not the kind of girl who goes gooey over romance and chocolates and hearts and flowers. I’m awkward in their wake, tongue twisted into obscure shapes by words that chick lit tells me I ought to say.
The breathless ooooh’s and ahhh’s, the fluttering lashes and cute blushed cheeks.
It just isn’t me.
I’m the girl who shuffles her feet, who uses ill-timed humour to deflect
what the fuck do I say now?
Thank you seems so
“I know you don’t really like flowers” He says “….but….”
and the sentence is never finished.
It’s Valentine’s Day and I didn’t expect anything,
although some snuggles and love you’s and soft sex would have been nice.
Last Valentine’s He said, as I lay in His arms,
“intimate, not raw”,
referring to the sex we were about to have,
and it was soft and gentle and tender, and I can still remember what it felt like as He trailed His fingertips delicately over my body, those words dancing drunkenly like fireflies in the air as we did that thing that they do in romance novels.
Made love <sigh>
I never expected to get flowers.
Or rather one flower.
A single red rose.
I saw it when He walked in, and thought “He’s bought me a rose!!…that’s so freaking sweet…”
He’s done what now?
Ah shit, this could be awkward.
Because I’m not a girlie girl who goes all gooey over romance and chocolates and hearts and flowers, and now He’s got me one and damn, what the fuck do I say now?
And then I think, just hold your fucking horses a minute there, Tonto, He’s not even given you the damn thing yet! Just calm your tits, chill the fuck out, and don’t forget to say ‘Thank you, I love it’
Wait, what? I have to fucking speak?
I can’t think and speak and do all at the same time!
And ahhhh shit, this is going to be awkward.
So He goes to hand me the rose, but now I’m being myself, all mouth and ‘personality’,
which is code for bratty,
and He’s not sure I deserve the rose after the personality broke free, and damnit just give me the fucking thing already,
because I haven’t got a clue what I’m supposed to say or do or,
and fuck, it’s just so fucking lovely that He bought me a fucking rose!
So He gives me this symbol of romance and hearts and mushy shit that I just don’t do, and I think I say thank you, but I’m not exactly sure, because at that exact moment,
and letters got tangled in the knotted ball of oh my god this is awkward.
Outer me is being myself, all floundering and word tripping over and flat on face falling, whilst inner me is all gooey over flowers and hearts and chocolates and swooning, and oh my god this is so sweet and isn’t He just wonderful!?
So I take my rose and put it over there, because I don’t want anyone else to touch it.
And I feel bad that I don’t have a suitable vase to display it in,
I’ve never had cause to buy one before now.
I always said I don’t like flowers, the past connotations of being presented with a hastily bought bunch were always in the negative, a clumsy apology that could never make up for the misdeed, and with the apology the flowers died.
But this is the now, not then, and it’s sweet, almost innocent, and cute and romantic and can you believe it, He bought me a fucking rose!
I look at it and think,
I want to find this rose,
when I’m old and feeling nostalgic,
hidden amongst trinkets in my cracked open box of Sir made memories.
So I cut off the bloom and place it carefully between the pages of a heavy book before the petals begin to wilt, and it’s almost painful to think that I’m here, crushing this rose,
but I want to keep it,
not discard it and without a thought, throw it away.
I want it’s (re)discovery to trigger memories of that awkward girl who tripped over her tongue and her words and oh my fucking god could this be any more awkward,
and remember that really, all she wanted to say was,
“Thank you, Sir, I love it”.