Ditch Flowers

August 9th, 1982

I’ve royally fucked up this time. I know, because she’s standing in the doorway, denying me access to our home and our son. Looking at her in all her pissed-off glory, my stomach does this strange little flip-flop, and I’m not sure if it’s fear or desire, because God Damn is she beautiful when she’s angry. With her hands on her hips and her head tilted judgmentally to the side, she’s glaring at me with eyes as hard as stone. And that pinched mouth of hers, is so damned perfect that I have to fight down the urge to rush her, slam her into the wall, and kiss her breathless. This is what she does to me. She drives me crazy to the point where all rational thought has flown and my blood is roiling with want and need...and just a little bit of fear.

“Well?” She asks, looking at me impatiently. My mind is so wrapped up in her, that I don’t even realize she’s waiting, and it takes a moment for me to catch up.

“I got you flowers,” I say and her eyes narrow. She crosses her arms and her foot begins tapping, and somewhere in the back of my head, warning bells are going off. This is not good. This is not good. Give her the flowers you moron! It’s all I can do to stand my ground and present my offering of repentance.

She hesitantly takes the bouquet of flowers and looks them over. I wait expectantly, hopeful that this will be a step towards getting me back into my house, with my family, where I belong. It’s hard for me to say ‘I’m sorry.’ It’s hard for me to admit when I’m wrong; always has been, always will be. But I love this woman to the very depths of my soul and the thought of being apart from her is so Goddamn painful that it’s hard to breathe.

“Where did you get these?” she asks suspiciously. “You didn’t buy them.”

“No.” Embarrassed, I duck my head and look up at her; pulling out the one tried and true weapon I have – my puppy dog eyes. She never could resist them and she can’t stop the flush that creeps across her cheeks now. Score 1, Winchester.

“I needed to think,” I explain, “so I drove out to Clinton Lake, you know, our little spot out there? And all along the road, the ditches were overflowing with these.”

She examines the sloppily bundled bouquet again, her fingers tracing over the soft petals and prickly centers of each flower. It’s a bit of a mess, the arrangement, with its brilliant golds and reds and soft lavenders and oranges, but I’m still proud of it. She must be a little too, because her eyes have softened when she looks back up at me.

“They’re beautiful.”

I shake my head and answer, “You’re beautiful.”

She rolls her eyes and reaches out, taking hold of my t-shirt in her surprisingly tight grip, and tugs me into her. “Get in here,” she demands, pulling me down for a kiss.