I don’t wear my wedding rings at the gym. For practical purposes. It never occurred to me that anyone was paying attention to my hands… looking for a ring… or looking for not-a-ring.
Inevitably, dragging my tired ass into that loud bright building at the same time each morning, I tend to see the same people. Every time. The staff knows me and I know them. We greet each other. But the other members, well, I don’t talk to anyone. I just pop in my earbuds and go. But there is this guy.
Some members walk past me without a glance. Some eyes meet mine and quickly look away. It’s oddly comforting to see others as stranger-shy as I am. But there is this guy.
I never turn off my music at the gym. Not until I’m back in the locker room. It keeps me going, but that’s only part of it. It’s a security measure… a protective barrier. I’m not forced to interact. Much. But there is this guy.
Every time he sees me, I see him. I really see him. He makes eye contact. He smiles. He’s quite beautiful. Hey, I’m married, not dead inside. I can’t help what sends stirring little shockwaves through my body. It just happens. And, God, it feels good.
Last Wednesday, I had an afternoon to myself. No plans, no responsibilities. I took off to read for a couple of hours at the bookshop my family hates to visit. (I understand – I spend far too long there.) Though I was tempted to have another cup of coffee and read longer, I resisted. Guilt set in and I knew it was time to go.
I’ve never hidden my strange little psychoses and paranoia. So when I arrived back home and saw an unexpected package resting against the front door, it should be no surprise that I had a mini panic attack. Clearly, something is wrong with me because knowing I was not expecting any sort of delivery, my mind immediately imagined ridiculous scenarios. It’s a bomb. It’s some sort of poisonous gas that’s going to kill me the moment I open the box. It’s a dead rabbit. It’s a human hand.
I was shaky when I lifted the box and brought it into the house. (Oh, I know, I am a huge contradiction. I thought it was going to kill me but I brought it inside anyway.) Upon laying it by the kitchen sink, I noticed a small logo in the corner. A logo I recognized. The flower shop next door to the gym. I passed it almost every day.
Flowers. Inside, I found a bunch of gorgeous, vibrant gerbera daisies. I lifted them and searched for a card or a note or anything to tell me who sent them. Nothing. I knew they weren’t from my husband. He’s just not that romantic. Flowers for no reason? I laughed for even thinking it. Mom? Sisters? If they wanted to surprise me, they’d probably just send money! But flowers… no.
Assuming the delivery must have been a mistake, I called the florist.
Not a mistake. ‘He wanted to remain anonymous. He paid cash. I don’t even have his name.’
I gave up and put them in water. I made dinner. My family came home. We ate and reviewed homework and the kids went to bed. Only then did my husband ask. ‘What’s with the flowers?’
‘I don’t know.’ I told him. The truth. Conversation over. He probably assumed I bought them for myself.
I had strange dreams that night. Maybe my brain was trying to solve the flower mystery. But that wasn’t going to happen.
I smiled when I glanced at the florist on my way into the gym that morning. I shook my head at my own childish giddiness. Earbuds in. Treadmill rolling. I tried to get those flowers off my mind, but I couldn’t. I didn’t really want to. The mystery felt good.
I stepped off the treadmill and peeked at my phone to change my music. And I crashed into someone. My earbuds fell from my ears. I looked up to apologize, and there was that guy. And his eyes. And his smile. And his hand… holding a beautiful vibrant gerbera daisy.
Posted in response to The Daily Post Daily Prompt: Secret Admirers
~Blogging 101: day 11