AND HERE’S TO YOU, MS. S. ROBINSON

[February 21, 2013 at 10:41am]

One fine Valentine’s Day, I made a lot of money. Not enough for a house and lot though, but for a minimum wager, it was way above what stipulated by law. And for someone of my species plus of the task’s familiarity, the goal would be attainable even with my eyes closed, as they say.

The mission: to deliver in person a bouquet of red roses to a certain “Ms. S. Robinson.”

The sender was an incurable romantic former roommate who, whether he’d deny or admit it, was also a member of society of “dead” poets. At first, I did hesitate, thinking at this time and age, doing such thing would be found ridiculous by the general public. But as what in politics people have repeatedly proven, when money talks everybody would listen.

I carried the flowers so carefully, smelling them myself occasionally, on my way to the place of a banking system’s office. After some brief inquiries, I finally found my target, which, after accepting the bouquet and its card was read, slammed it quickly to a nearby waste basket.

I did freeze for a few minutes; it was not my first time to hand over the roses, but to witness right away having them go straight to the waste bin, somehow it affected my sensitivities. Good thing she just stared at me and never said a word, for I think I was already then in a fighting mood.

But it just went on briefly since the moment I set my eyes on her lovely face, I instantly understood why my friend insisted on resorting to that love’s old school tricks. Actually, I consented to his request too because I was fed up of hearing the topic about her almost the entire moment we’d had together. I analyzed he had a story about “Ms. S. Robinson” in every Earth’s corner, imagining her image in every little thing they used to share.

And I remember my own story in the past when I was visiting someone, having that loving feeling with roses, chocolates too, in both hands. Yet, I never had experienced, at least right in my front, of having my flowers done the way Michael Jordan did the ball when he would dunk.

When “Ms. S. Robinson” gathered her wit thereafter I think she became my sympathizer, as she quickly recognized the fact that I was so embarrassed, as personally, we didn’t know each other. And I just calmly said in jest after I managed to even smile at her, “Next time, Miss, since you don’t shoot a messenger, in his face, don’t also throw away his flowers.”

But I’m thankful I never had the same face to say this further to her seriously: “Besides, those flowers were not from him actually. They’re for you… from me.”