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."