My boyfriend surprised me with a bouquet of roses yesterday. They were pale pink, the flesh of the inner petals a darker shade, almost magenta. Their heads were so heavy that they nodded like sleepy children, their cheeks suffused with the red patches healthy children’s faces always seem to have.

I thanked him for the roses, genuinely surprised. Our anniversary had already passed, Valentine’s Day was still a couple of weeks away. I asked him what the occasion was, and he replied, “Just because.”

Of course, this only perplexed me more.

I know I have the tendency to over-analyze things too much; my horoscope told me so this morning. But sitting here, contemplating the beauty of these roses, the thoughtfulness of this timeless gesture, I can’t help but wonder:

When did it become de rigeur for suitors to give their lovers flowers whose blooms are, at best, transient?

And I cannot resist the sinful thought that a CD or a book would have made for a better gift. At least then I wouldn’t have to watch it die.