Someone sent me flowers.
I was content, even happy, with the chocolates from my mother. I smiled upon opening the mailbox to find cards from both my sister and friend. I had braved the sea of boys on campus walking with their bouquets in hand, and I successfully made it through the checkout line ignoring people’s last minute purchases of wine and champagne. I was satisfied with my independence, making plans to relax and take a bath.
But then someone sent me flowers.
Someone sent me flowers and they didn’t leave their name.
I hate to admit it, but I was immediately thrilled—giddy even. And then I realized…
I can’t remember the last time a boy gave me butterflies in my stomach, or the last time someone held my hand. I’ve been kissed, and kissed again, but I am unable to recall when those kisses last made me go weak in the knees.
When was that last time I actually had a crush? I want that silly, flustered, anticipation. I want to hold my breath when I round a corner in hopes I see him standing there.
I was fine.
And then someone sent me flowers.
They didn’t leave their name.