He stood on her porch, bouquet in hand, heart beating with the quiet tremble of someone not yet used to grand gestures.
The door opened. She appeared like sunlight—warm smile, soft eyes, the scent of vanilla trailing behind her. She saw the flowers and gasped, touched and surprised. Without hesitation, she closed the distance between them, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him—sweet, quick, sincere. A thank-you sealed with affection.
But he froze for a moment, his body stiff with surprise. Not rejection—just the awkwardness of a soul unused to such sudden warmth.
She pulled back quickly, reading his hesitation with immediate concern.
“Oh—oh no,” she said, her voice soft with worry. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to offend you.”
He looked at her, eyes wide, cheeks tinged with the blush of boyish charm. And then, a slow, shy smile crept across his face as he took a step back.
“No,” he said gently, “I’m not offended at all.”
He turned, already heading down the porch steps.
“I’m going for more flowers.”
An absent-minded husband thought
he had conquered his problem of trying to remember his wife’s birthday and their anniversary.
He opened an account with a florist, provided that florist with the dates and instructions to send flowers to his wife on these dates along with an appropriate note signed, Your loving husband.
His wife was thrilled by this new display of attention and all went well until next year, on their anniversary, when he came home, kissed his wife and said off-handedly,
“Nice flowers, honey. Where’d you get them?”
Shortly before our 25th wedding anniversary, my husband sent 25 long-stemmed yellow roses to me at my office.
A few days later, I plucked all the petals and dried them.
On the night of our anniversary, I spread the petals over the bed and lay on top of them, wearing only a negligee.
As I’d hoped, I got a reaction from my husband.
When he saw me, he shouted: “Are those potato chips?”
