Roses are red

Ryan didn't let me down; he made it a Valentine’s Day to remember. Somehow while I was at a business meeting, he managed to break into my apartment and decorate it with fresh flowers. Ryan actually hand-picked them, or stole them, from the front yards of well-tended Beverly Hills homes where immaculately manicured gardens are a work of art. I’m not talking about a few flowers here. He decorated my entire apartment with hundreds of them, in all imaginable varieties of blooms.

There were beautiful roses in shades of pinks, reds and yellows creating a sweet scent in my living room that made me dizzy as I entered. Dropping my briefcase and purse, I rubbed my eyes to make sure they were real. My mascara made big black circles around my eyes from rubbing them. Ryan looked concerned, as if he thought I was crying. He stood next to me, wiping off the black around my eyes while admiring the rose garden he had created.

“Ryan, what’s all this?” I asked in a daze, high from the overwhelming fragrance.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” He threw his arms in the air and grabbed me with a big teddy bear hug. 

As we hugged, I peeked over his shoulder into my bedroom. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw stocks of irises in their deep robust purple on my bed that looked surreal like the ones Vincent Van Gogh painted. I didn't know how he knew that Irises are one of my very favorite flowers. I dropped my embrace and ran to see the magnificent buds. Framing them were bright fuchsia stocks of bougainvillea on my pillows as if they were growing toward the ceiling.