"Happy! Valentine's! Day!"

It was Polk, hair brushed back, argyle cardigan de-linted, and a smile on his face like he'd just seen Kate Upton naked on his couch reading the Wall Street Journal. He held out three roses that looked like they should be on life-support.

I closed the door.

My accountant was on the other side of the door offering me flowers on Valentine's Day. My accountant of seven years...roses...on the one day of the year when roses mean only one thing. And you know the thing I mean. Thing is, if I don't take the flowers I will hurt his feelings which could have unhealthy repercussions on my tax return. But if I take the flowers I will commit myself to a romantic relationship with my accountant which will include such activities as hand holding, the whispering of sweet nothings in ears and the complimenting of body parts day and night. Maybe I can abide the day. But the night? The choice was an easy one.

I opened the door.

"Happy! Valentine's! Day!"

"Listen, Polk. I can't accept the flowers. You're an attractive accountant in your own awesome way and I'm sure there's someone out there better suited to your awesomeness. I hope this won't affect the way you do my return. Here's a tissue."

"I am. Bewildered."

Polk was bewildered. Or, maybe he was hurt and covering up by saying he was bewildered.

"Are you sure you're not covering up the pain of rejection with bewilderment?"

The longer I stared at Polk the more I realized his face bent with bewilderment. He wasn't covering up any pain. I had misread the situation.

"You. Misread me. I was practicing. On. You. These flowers. They're for someone else. Who likes me."

"Oh. I'm so sorry Polk."

"I thought. You liked. Me." Polk walked away.

"We're still cool on the tax return, right?"

Polk wasn't cool. He. Was not. Cool.


Adrian said...

Funny stuff, Kafkaville. If you'd like to mutually exchange blog links, let me know. Good to see you last night. Adrian.