**March 8th**
*Excerpt from Stephen’s Diary*
I cracked open one eye and immediately squeezed it shut again. The low March sun was relentless, its sharp beam stabbing straight through the window and into my face. I shuffled sideways on the crumpled bedsheets, trying to escape.
“Awake, then?” came my wife’s voice. “Go on, open those shameless eyes. Let me have a proper look at them. Other men bring their wives presents—flowers, chocolates—but *you* had to go and drink yourself stupid last night. Or have you forgotten what day it is?”
I slithered towards the wall and finally managed to pry my eyes open. Through the narrow gaps—more like arrow slits than eyelids—I saw Katherine standing there, hands planted firmly on her hips.
“W-what day?” I muttered, genuinely baffled.
“Women’s Day! March 8th! Supposed to be *my* celebration, but no, you had to drown yourself in booze instead. Couldn’t even look at you this morning. And don’t think I didn’t notice—our daughter brought me a nice bottle of wine, saved it special, and *you* swigged the lot. Wasn’t the vodka enough?”
Before I could shield myself, a flying slipper, hurled with expert precision, smacked me square in the forehead.
“Take that—”
I ducked the second one by diving under the duvet. Thank God she only had the pair. I peeked out.
“Katherine, love, I’m sorry. I swear I’ll make it right—” A hiccup cut me off, and as I tried to stand, the bedsheet tangled around my ankles.
She waved me off and disappeared into the kitchen. The furious clatter of dishes followed—never a good sign. That meant she was properly angry, and this row would last all day.
Best to make myself scarce. I edged past the kitchen, slid into the bathroom, and splashed icy tap water onto my face. Freed a toothbrush mug, filled it, gulped it down. Damp fingers slicked back my thinning hair. The dish-rattling continued.
I crept back to the bedroom, dressed, and slipped into the hall. Lost balance pulling on my shoes—nearly toppled over. Katherine’s head snapped around from the kitchen.
“Where d’you think *you’re* off to, then?”
“I-I won’t be long—just a quick—” I snatched my jacket off the hook and stumbled backwards towards the door.
“Oi! Don’t you *dare*—” She charged at me—those formidable curves in full advance—but I was already out, slamming the door just in time.
“You come back here, and I’ll—” Her muffled threats chased me down the stairs.
Outside, the sun was bright, icicles drumming a steady drip from the eaves, patches of pockmarked tarmac peeking through the thaw. Men bustled past clutching bright yellow mimosa sprigs or tulips in cellophane.
“Excuse me, mate—got the time?” I asked a bloke holding a bushy mimosa branch.
“Time you sobered up,” he tossed over his shoulder.
“Aye, wouldn’t hurt,” I muttered, trudging on. Actually, I’d meant to ask where he got the flowers, but somehow, the wrong words slipped out.
“Lad, where’d you buy those?” I called to a younger fellow.
“Back there.” A vague wave behind him.
“Right.” I set off in that direction.
Soon, I spotted a woman by the traffic lights, a cardboard box at her feet bursting with fluffy mimosa stems. I quickened my pace. If I could just grab some flowers, maybe smooth things over with Katherine—maybe even earn myself a celebratory nip later. But when I reached her, only one measly sprig lay at the bottom.
“Last one, love. Yours for half price,” she said, eyeing me with knowing sympathy.
“Need a proper bouquet. For the wife. Got any more?”
“Gone, innit?” she mimicked. “You can wait if you like—I’ll call for another delivery.”
I wavered. A scraggly twig would only insult Katherine further. The steady stream of flower-bearing men meant there had to be another stall somewhere. On I went.
An idea struck—better check if I even had cash. Memory foggy, and knowing Katherine, she might’ve emptied my pockets to keep me dry. I stopped, rummaged, and unearthed a crumpled tenner. No clue what flowers cost these days.
Up ahead, a crowd clustered around a sedan’s boot. At the quoted price for tulips, my hopes sank.
“Just the one?” asked the bearded seller, his accent thick.
“Only got this.” I brandished the tenner.
“Eh, for that? One flower. Take it or leave it.”
One sad tulip wouldn’t cut it any more than that mimosa twig. I shuffled off.
Brain straining, I ran through who might lend me a fiver. *Liam owes me fifty quid!* That was it—time to collect. Never mind that we’d drunk it together on *my* tab—debt’s a debt.
“Who’s there?” came Gemma’s voice through the door. Liam’s missus was a right dragon, kept him on a tighter leash than a greyhound. When he did escape, he went *hard*. We called her the Battleaxe behind her back.
I bent to the keyhole. “It’s Stephen. Liam in?”
“What d’you want?”
“He owes me fifty. Desperate for it, actually.”
Silence. Probably digesting the news.
“I’ll give you what for!” she shrieked finally. The lock clicked, the door cracked open, and a hand shot out—middle finger rigid.
“Like *that*, eh?”
I yanked the door wider. Gemma stumbled out, the rude gesture whiffing past my nose. Behind her, Liam’s scrawny frame lurked in a stained vest and absurd floral boxers.
“Liam, mate, be decent—” I managed before the door slammed.
“Bloody hell…”
*Now what?* Should’ve checked Katherine’s coat pockets—always loose change in there. *Stupid.* Summer’d be easier—just nick some from the park beds. Who even decided Women’s Day had to be in March, when everything’s still frozen?
But going home empty-handed wasn’t an option. I trudged on, avoiding eye contact with the happy bouquet-carriers. Lost in self-pity, I slipped on black ice, legs wobbling like jelly. Needed a breather. I slumped onto a bench.
Thirst clawed at me; stomach growled. Not a crumb since yesterday. No telling when—or *if*—Katherine would feed me unless I turned up with flowers. Brain churned for solutions. That tenner might stretch to a couple beers, but nothing else came to mind.
Then I remembered—how we’d met, how I’d carried her home once, smitten. Back then, I never came home without flowers (stolen, yes, but still). Got chased by the cops once. Two kids raised together. Our son’s up north now, but our daughter’s local, visits with the grandkids… When did it all go sideways?
Might as well waste the tenner on beer. I stood, ready to go—then spotted a bloke clutching a bouquet in a paper sack. He paused by the bench.
“Spare a fag?”
“Don’t smoke. Drink, aye, but never took to cigs,” I said, eyeing the red rose buds poking from the bag. He looked gutted.
“Stand you up, did she?” I guessed.
“Forty minutes. Feet are blocks of ice. Calls going straight to voicemail.”
“Flowers’ll freeze too.” I shook my head.
“Sod it—” He drew back to chuck them in the bin.
I lunged, catching his wrist. “Hang on—don’t waste ’em. Give ’em here. For the wife. You should see her—” Didn’t get to elaborate before he thrust the bouquet at me.
“Take ’em.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked off.
Seven. Seven proper *roses*. Not sad tulips—roses! I watched his retreating back—no second thoughts. Unbuttoned my coat, tucked the prize close like contraband. Someone called out, but I ignored it, pace quickening.
“Stephen, what’ve you got there? Warming a bottle?” teased Mrs. O’Brien by the lift.
I flashed the bouquet.
“Givin’ up the drink, are ya? Good on you! Kath’ll be chuffed.”
“Happy Women’s Day,” I grumbled, then bolted inside.
Climbing the stairs, I felt lighter, taller. Katherine wouldn’t see this coming. Only given her roses twice before—when I proposed and when our daughter was born.
The landing was thick with cooking smells—my stomach roared in protest.
InsideI set the roses on the table next to her half-finished crossword, and for the first time in years, saw her eyes soften the way they used to when we were young.
