In late 2001, a boy invited me to dinner. I obliged, always looking for adventure. We walked to his red two seater. As I got into the front seat, he pulled a box from the backseat and handed it to me. I gasped in happiness. “Donuts,” I said and put the Krispy Kreme box back down in the backseat. “You know exactly what I like! But better not to spoil our appetite.”

“Open it!” he said.

I lifted the box and peered inside. Puzzled at first as it was not round and sweet and tasty. A bouquet of my favorite flowers laid in the white box. Calla lily. A thought flew across my mind that he must have remembered that I mentioned it once. What I didn’t know at that moment was that I was going to dislike. I knew what the gesture meant, so I turned to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. Hiding my disappointment, I forced a smile and said, “Wow, thank you! You got my favorite flower!”

“I knew that you would love it!” he said and turned the key.

The car roared to life, and the entire evening, I wanted the glazed donuts.

What I didn’t know was that less than 2 weeks later, I would break up with him, not just because of the donuts, but because of so many things. What I also didn’t know was that I would establish a lifelong rule of “no flowers”. “They die,” I say.

But I would bite my lip when they did arrive, knowing the thoughtfulness intended.

“Calla lilies were my last favorite flower,” I said to a friend as we took a loop around the park.

We idly glanced at the hipster stores along 18th street and the crowd forming along the major food stops. It was the day before Valentine’s Day. I related the story of the boy. “I suppose that I was more upset that he didn’t know me,” I said.

“Well, that was traumatic for you,” my friend said. “You were only 19.”

“I was.”