Eleven Roses

"This is Teresa at the front desk. You have a delivery."

Five minutes later, I opened the door to the lobby. Teresa and another young woman stood there, giggling, waiting for my reaction. I turned to the left, and on the edge of the reception desk stood a garnet red art deco vase and one dozen long stem red roses bursting forth, framed by dozens of tiny white flowers and unopened pale green buds. "Wow," I exhaled, as my cheeks colored. "Lucky girl," said the girl standing next to Teresa. "What does the card say?" I gingerly opened the small, cream-colored envelope. "It's been a wonderful eight months," the card read. "Love, William."

The roses caused quite a stir at the office, which I found fascinating:

"I'd be embarrassed if my boyfriend sent flowers to me at work. Then again, why does my boyfriend never do things like that?" - The woman who sits next to me, who has been waiting for months for her boyfriend to propose.

"I got flowers, too. But they didn't look like that." - My boss, who received a "Thanksgiving bouquet" from her husband, in an effort to soothe hurt feelings after a fight.

"I told my boyfriend about the flowers. I said, 'Why don't you send me flowers at work?' He said he would think about it." - The young woman who carried my roses up the lobby.

And finally, from one of my close friends at the office, a sensitive young mother who is in the middle of filing for divorce, "If someone sent me those, I would cry."

She said this in a quavering voice, almost with tears in her eyes, and stood, unmoving in front of the flowers for a long time. I gave her a hug, reached over to the vase, and plucked a dark red rose from the bouquet. "Here," I said, "for good luck."

Smile like you mean it

To my right, a streak of moonlight cuts across the sapphire waters of the San Francisco Bay. In my rearview mirror, the sky deepens into orange.

Save some face, you know you've only got one.

Change your ways while you're young.

I'm flying across the Richmond-San Rafael bridge, singing with the Killers. But in my mind, I'm sitting in my ex-boyfriend's car, three years ago. Smile like you mean it.

"This is my favorite Killers song," he announces, backing his bright blue Acura out of his parking spot. The car squeals and cuts an arc, almost hitting his motorbike. He drives like he lives -- recklessly, arrogantly, selfishly -- cursing at other drivers behind his Oakley sunglasses, running red lights, careening down city streets.

And someone will drive her around, the same streets that I did.

I've been driving around the same streets with someone else for the past eight months. Someone who never tells me I'm "too emotional" when I cry, whether from joy or frustration. Someone who listens intently to my incessant questions -- Why do humans have to eat three times a day? Isn't that inefficient? Why do we need sleep? And to my delights: I saw a baby snake outside the office today!

So, why is it, when someone from your past hurts you unforgivably, a part of you feels nostalgic when reminded of him? A song. A blue Acura. The Thai restaurant you ducked into during a rainstorm, where he kissed you, wiped the rain from your cheeks and whispered, "I've never been so happy to be caught in a storm."