I was already driving home when I realized what day it was. I must have seen the date a dozen times, and it had never really registered.
"Fuck!" I shouted, almost swerving into an obnoxious taxicab.
I checked my watch and took a deep breath; I still had time. I searched my mind for a list of nearby florists; on the first pass I didn't come up with any, but finally I remembered a sleazy little shop on Fifth that was run by a rude and obnoxious curmudgeon. But as the cliché goes, beggars can't be choosers, and I made the left turn.
After circling twice to find a parking spot, fumbling to put quarters in the meter, tripping on the curb, and smacking into a light pole, I finally managed to get inside the shop.
Luckily the wait was short—I don't think I was the only one who didn't like the place—and I got up to the desk shortly. "I need a dozen red roses, please."
"What's the occasion?" laughed the owner.
I don't know why I answered him honestly. "It's our anniversary."
He nodded, then moved with remarkable slowness into, inside, and out of the storage room to gather the roses. I was checking my watch and sweating the whole time. Finally he returned with two nice roses, eight red things that looked vaguely like roses and two deformed purplish masses that were clearly not roses. "Must be a fine little lady for you to give her all this."
I bit my tongue, deciding it was easier to play along. "Yeah."
And he laughed again, much harsher. "Of course, someone as skinny as yourself can hardly be expected to impress the ladies any other way, eh?"
At this point I decided it was best to shrug. The 'fuck you' stayed in my head.
On another day—or rather, had I planned ahead better—I wouldn't have accepted the lousy bunch he gave me, but as it was I just wanted to get the damned flowers and get out of there, so I laid the cash on the table and ran back to the car.
When I got back to the apartment, tired and disheveled, and forced open the sticking door, I couldn't help but smile. There he was, wearing only a pair of gym shorts, engrossed in one of his paintings, sitting on that weird little bench he has, his right leg bent up and his arms all crooked, all the cuter because he didn't care how he looked.
I closed the door as quietly as I could, and just sat and watched as he fidgeted, drawing his brush across that canvas, wiggling that beautiful butt from side to side as he worked. Either he didn't know I was there or he knew I liked to watch.
"Put some clothes on, baby," I said finally.
He turned, looking startled, then grinned. "Danny! You brought me flowers!"
I shrugged, feeling my collar pinch slightly. "Figured I'd better do something."
Somehow he leapt instantly to his feet and charged straight towards me. Before I could react he was in my arms. I let myself get lost in the embrace; nothing takes away the exhaustion of office life quite like a warm hug from a beautiful man. I almost dropped the flowers when he kissed me on the cheek.
"I love you too, Corey. But I haven't even taken off my coat!"
"I can help you, babe," he whispered, proceeding to fiddle with the buttons of my jacket.