The first time I received Roses from him, I thought it was charming. The doorbell rang. I wasn’t expecting anything and the delivery man handed me a long narrow box that I knew meant flowers. A dozen roses from my new boyfriend on the West Coast. “To a beautiful soul.” I was touched. Charmed. I got a vase, filled it with water and put the bouquet on the table.

The next day, the doorbell rang again. What could it be? There was another long narrow box. Another dozen roses. “You are beautiful, inside and out.” Slightly less charming than the day before, but still charming. I pulled out my step-ladder and climbed to reach the other vase that I kept tucked away on the highest shelf. It looked lovely on the sideboard.

On the third day, when the doorbell rang, I had a hunch what it was. The delivery man smiled and shook his head. “Wow, he sure must be in love.” I smiled politely, but I was beginning to think it was something other than love. I phoned my boyfriend, “Sweetie, lover, honey pie. That’s quite a lot of roses.”

“Don’t you like them?”

“Sure honey, I love them.”

“Oh, good.”

“But don’t you think that’s enough roses for the immediate future?”

“Right. Got you. Hey, I’ve gotta go. Can we talk later?”

The next day, I received daisies.

A week later, my apartment looked like a funeral home.

“No more fucking flowers!”

“I thought you said you love flowers.”

“Just stop it!”

“You still like me, don’t you?”