“Darling, are you going to get out of bed?”

I struggled to locate the voice. I wake up devastatingly groggy and under the impression that I am in Wisconsin. Is it eight already?

“It's almost eight, dear.”

I squint through my half-closed eyes and peer about the loft.

“But it's dark outside. Is it really eight?”

“Do you want to stay in bed?”

“You know I don't like staying in bed after you leave. It depresses me.” I sit up and pout. Why was it so dark out? I felt as if I had been jolted out of bed in the middle of the night.

“You can stay in bed if you like.”

I moaned and pouted a bit more before heaving myself from the bed. I located my clothing, went downstairs and began to dress. On my way down the steps I couldn't help but realize that the clock wasn't next to the bed.

“Where's the clock?”

“I don't know, dear. Would you like some tea?”

I grunted an indecipherable 'yes' and disappeared into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Bryan was already dressed, and I didn't wish to make him late. I tried opening my eyes all the way in the bathroom in a pathetic attempt to wake up. It didn't work too well.

“It's so dark out. How bizarre.” I muttered as I walked to the kitchen.

“What type of tea would you like?”

“White, thank you.”

“It will be ready in a moment.”

“Darling...”

“Yes?”

“You said it was almost eight.”

“Yes...”

“The clock on the stove reads 7:10.”

“.......”

“.......”

A small whine sounds through the apartment. How dare he. How dare he fiddle with my sleeping habits.

I suppose it was lucky for both of us that I discovered the flowers at that moment. Had there not been flowers, dearest reader, arms would have been broken. Blood would have been shed. Livelihood as we know it would shatter into tiny bits of rubble. I would have been, to put it diplomatically, upset. Yesterday I had suffered through two tests, a thesis paper due date, a severe lack of sleep and a slowly developing cold. To wake someone up an hour early after such a day is nothing short of treason.

But there on the table sat a vase of Gerbera daisies, a large bowl of fresh fruit, a plate of cottage cheese and the tea. Gerbera daisies are my favorite (right after the saffron blossom, that is); I love the bright little creatures, with their perfectly proportioned stems and brilliantly colored petals. I've always viewed Valentines as the pinnacle of maudlin uselessness, but this small surprise was, well, nice beyond explanation.

“Oh Darling, how charming. I saw those just in time, you know; I was getting ready to disembowel you.”

“Happy Valentines Day, love.”

We sat down and ate breakfast. I smiled as he told me of the multitudes of gay florists who had aided the surprise. I felt somewhat embarrassed; we had been planning to celebrate Valentines on Thursday, and I had nothing for him. I doubt I'll have anything by Thursday, even; what do you get a man for Valentines? We both decided not to spend much money- we're marvelously poor, you know- so I'm still clueless as to what is expected for the man (although Bryan and I did discover that in return the chauvinists of the world have officially declared March 14th as “blow job” day). I'll figure something out in the next couple of days.

“Thank you for the surprise. I loved it.”

“You're very welcome. Should we get going?”

We left the apartment and I drove him to work. As I pulled out from the parking lot I drove past the front door of the building and saw him. I waved and blew him a kiss. The doorman standing outside waved back at me, looking somewhat confused.

The flowers sit on my desk next to me. I couldn't find a vase, so I placed them in a decanter I found sitting in the dusty bowels of the empty kitchen cabinets. They smell lovely.

The room is much more inviting with my little decanter full of flowers; the deep reds and soft whites and pinks of the pedals make me swell with contentment as I look around the room and think of how hopelessly in love I truly am.