| He read the message again, studied
the silly bear as if some clue might be found, and then could not resist
reading the message just one more time. His lips moved slightly, and his
cheeks felt warm. Gregory slipped the valentine into his pocket and turned
to leave the post office. |
| Standing against the wall, staring directly
at him, stood a
pretty woman in a plaid kilt. He nodded once. She blushed deep crimson,
lowering her eyes. How foolish he felt. As if she could be the admirer.
As if any woman wanted some flower-growing, weed-plucking man, made awkward
by years of shy celibacy. He pulled the card out of his pocket and looked
for a trash can. |
| The smell of too much perfume
made him dizzy as the woman approached. Her face was bright red, tinted
with purple now, with intense blushing so like his own hopeless response
to almost any situation. |
| She whispered something, but Gregory was so
distracted by the bloom on her cheeks that he missed the words. The redness,
he realized, was the exact shade of his Queen Anne Roses, the ones that
won a second-place ribbon in the County Fair two years past. |
| "Pardon?" he said, looking now at her eyes. |
| Again she whispered, "Lick
my stamps." Of course, a silly phrase from the bottom of
the valentine message, a line as silly as the card itself. The woman's
face grew even redder and strangely attractive. He feared for a moment
that she would flee. |
| Instead, the woman laughed. A belly
shaking laugh that rose low then high, a laugh so rich that it suited her
florid face. Gregory laughed as well, and then bravely asked her name. |
