I know immediately the flowers aren’t for me. No one sends me flowers. The only occasion upon which I have ever received a bouquet was my twenty-first birthday; a bottle of champagne nestled in a small yellow, white and pink arrangement. When someone wants to please me – when I need to cheer myself up - a used book store is a better bet. So the vase squatting at my doorstep cannot be mine.There's another one in my head. Perhaps that one will be tomorrow! Or perhaps (gasp) I'll actually write a full-out short story. I have the recipe for one: a first line, a premise, and an idea for a plot.
But I don’t know who, or where, the rightful recipient is, and so I indulge in a brief, harmless fantasy.
And throw away the card, strangely guilty.