One, two, three...

"Ouch," not watching where she was going as she entered her flat Saffron stubbed her toe, "damn it," she winced.

A bunch of red Gerberas had caught the back of her shoe. Two of the petals broken and dismembered under her feet. No note, just flowers. Picking up the abused specimen she opened the door. She placed in in vase on her coffee table.

This was the fourth bunch this week. Always the same, no notes.

One bunch of gerbera's is nice, two is lovely, three is a party and four with no note, is intriguing.

The following Monday there was a fifth, then a sixth, all different colors and all without notes.

Not wanting to discard the novelty quite so soon Saffron plucked the petals off the dying flowers and froze them in ice cube trays, she dried flowers in the pages of a phone book, she boiled the petals of a brilliant yellow bunch making a syrup that she bottled for later. As if she wanted to preserve the mystery.

The next week a seventh bunch and then an eighth and then... no more. There was a silence for a month or more.

Then a post card from Barcelona.

Hey Saffron,

Its been 8 years since I last saw you, but every year in June I find myself wondering how you are. I hope you liked the flowers, I remember Gerberas are your favorite, I hope they still are. Eight bunches for eight missed birthdays.

I live in Barcelona now and I just got married. I always loved you.

Hope you had a great birthday.

Robert Lawler

Unsure what to do with this correspondence Saffron did the only thing she could think to do, she drank his affection.

A burgundy glass, ice cubes full of flower petals, a tablespoon of the sugary yellow syrup, gin and soda water.