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dragonlady7via http://ift.tt/2EqjLxO
OK so.
I got home from work and Dude was already inside doing dishes. “It’s my turn,” he said, when I waved a hand at the sink as I took my shoes off. He’s not wrong, I did them last night, and boy were there a lot.
I nerved myself up. “What about the br–”
“Oh yeah the broiler pan,” he said. “I was thinking, man, maybe we can just scrub that out in the laundry sink, it’d wreck the dish sponge.”
“Are you going t–” I began, figuring on Using My Words and going the whole hog, but was distracted because there was something wrapped in pink tissue paper on the kitchen table. “Did you– buy– flowers?”
He laughed. “So, the thing is.”
He has, dear readers, never bought me flowers before. We have been dating since two thousand and fucking two, and he has never bought me flowers.
“There’s a florist’s shop in your building,” I guessed, because this is also why my father started buying my mom flowers after like twenty years of marriage.
“Not quite,” he said, “but there is a flower shop right off the highway on the way to work, and a big ad, and I was like, I’m not a chump, I’m not gonna buy flowers on Valentine’s Day. But then I was thinking about it, so I left work a couple minutes early and bought some, because why not? I didn’t buy a vase though because I figured we have one somewhere.”
I couldn’t find a vase, because I haven’t had flowers in the house in like, a decade except some I got from the far and kept in a jar. But I found a suitably enormous jar, so.
I have a dozen red roses and a spray of baby’s breath filler in a half-gallon Mason jar on my kitchen table, and am mightily confused, I tell you what.
I’m a sucker. But I also know he doesn’t read on here. I don’t know if he’s sorry for booby-trapping the oven with fire, or if he’s genuinely just amused by the novelty of working downtown again.
I’ll reserve a tiny amount of judgement to see whether he really cleans the broiler pan. But I’ll be prepared to be sorry I bitched about it so much. (Hey though he booby-trapped my oven with FIRE.)
(Your picture was not posted)
OK so.
I got home from work and Dude was already inside doing dishes. “It’s my turn,” he said, when I waved a hand at the sink as I took my shoes off. He’s not wrong, I did them last night, and boy were there a lot.
I nerved myself up. “What about the br–”
“Oh yeah the broiler pan,” he said. “I was thinking, man, maybe we can just scrub that out in the laundry sink, it’d wreck the dish sponge.”
“Are you going t–” I began, figuring on Using My Words and going the whole hog, but was distracted because there was something wrapped in pink tissue paper on the kitchen table. “Did you– buy– flowers?”
He laughed. “So, the thing is.”
He has, dear readers, never bought me flowers before. We have been dating since two thousand and fucking two, and he has never bought me flowers.
“There’s a florist’s shop in your building,” I guessed, because this is also why my father started buying my mom flowers after like twenty years of marriage.
“Not quite,” he said, “but there is a flower shop right off the highway on the way to work, and a big ad, and I was like, I’m not a chump, I’m not gonna buy flowers on Valentine’s Day. But then I was thinking about it, so I left work a couple minutes early and bought some, because why not? I didn’t buy a vase though because I figured we have one somewhere.”
I couldn’t find a vase, because I haven’t had flowers in the house in like, a decade except some I got from the far and kept in a jar. But I found a suitably enormous jar, so.
I have a dozen red roses and a spray of baby’s breath filler in a half-gallon Mason jar on my kitchen table, and am mightily confused, I tell you what.
I’m a sucker. But I also know he doesn’t read on here. I don’t know if he’s sorry for booby-trapping the oven with fire, or if he’s genuinely just amused by the novelty of working downtown again.
I’ll reserve a tiny amount of judgement to see whether he really cleans the broiler pan. But I’ll be prepared to be sorry I bitched about it so much. (Hey though he booby-trapped my oven with FIRE.)
(Your picture was not posted)
