Cloaked In Coward-Cloth

When the receipt contains a misspelling of your name, the likelihood that the entire operation is doomed veers up above 100%.

The flowers were delivered.  She was out of town.  Her ex- had flamed on to abusive and she rightly rocketed out of L.A. Returned, she found dead flowers. Probably worse than if her sister had just thrown the stinking rotten flesh out.

I can't remember if I drummed up the flower delivery specifically for her birthday or if flowers were a follow-up to the date we'd missed courtesy of Mr. Violent Ex-Boyfriend. It wasn't even a date. We were friends. Platonic. There were ways that might have changed, but I am proudly cloaked in coward-cloth.  

The only instance evaporate I remember was standing in line at a McDonald's with her. The two guys in front of us couldn't help but stare at her chest. It irritated her. I didn't have anything in the quip queue other than: "Relax, guys.  They're fake." Wisely, I left that one to gather dust in the silo. 

Flowers have never been added back to my romantic arsenal. The worth in their fabled charms perennially distorted in the aftermath of a quiet, colossal calamity.