wip

he walked into the store wet with rain. going to the store was a chore enough--but the rain seemed to make his steps that much more sluggish. today, however, whether or not it was true, he felt unburdened by the rain--as if he'd passed through a light mist when the reality outside was more torrential.

he made his way to the greeting card section, behind which, he had a vague notion the flowers might be. he seemed to remember seeing them there--peripherally, in his memory--preserved in a line of freezers like tv dinners. even if they weren't there--if they were somewhere else--he knew he'd find them eventually. he was determined--uncharacteristically excited, like a kid trying to conceal a secret and at the same time wishing to tell someone--anyone who could read in his face the giddiness: that wonderful feeling of knowing something that others don't. he'd even ask someone, if it came to it. he knew what he wanted: a bouquet of roses. that's what she'd said, cynically (though it was lost on him) between heavy drags on her light cigarette: "sometimes, i just wish i could find a sappy romantic guy who will surprise me with (searching)--i don't know, a random bouquet of roses." he knew, when she said this, what he had to do. the trouble was remembering what each color stood for.

red, he thought--that was reserved for more serious expressions of love. that's the one husbands bought for wives on twentieth anniversaries. that's the one boyfriends bought for girlfriends along with expensive chocolates and expensive bottles of wine or champagne when they wanted to take things to "the next level" after one year together. he couldn't decide if red was an appropriate color for his situation.