Katie, forgive me…
Stephen cracked open one eye and immediately clamped it shut again. The low March sun had taken deadly aim, firing a merciless beam straight through the window into his face. He squirmed on the crumpled bedsheet, trying to dodge.
“Awake at last, you drunken oaf?” His wife’s voice cut through the haze. “Open those shameless eyes—I want to look into them. Other husbands give gifts, buy flowers for their wives. And what do you do? Drink yourself blind. Do you even remember what day it is?”
Stephen scrambled closer to the wall before daring to open his eyes again. Through the slits of his eyelids—narrow as arrow-loops—he saw Katie standing there, arms planted on her hips like a storm about to break.
“Wh-what day?” He genuinely had no idea.
“International Women’s Day, you fool. A day for *me* to celebrate, not for you to drown yourself. I can’t even look at you. Our daughter brought me a nice bottle of wine—had it saved for today—and you swigged it down like it was tap water. Wasn’t the whiskey enough?”
Before he could shield himself, a slipper, flung with deadly precision, smacked him square in the forehead.
“That’s from me—”
A second slipper came hurtling, but he ducked under the blanket just in time. Thank God she only had the pair. He peeked out, cautious.
“Katie, love, forgive me. I’ll make it right, I swear—” Stephen hiccuped, then tangled himself in the bedsheet trying to stand.
She waved him off and stormed into the kitchen. The crashing of dishes began almost immediately—a familiar warning that this row would rage all day.
Best not poke the bear. He slithered past the kitchen, avoiding eye contact, and into the bathroom. Splashed cold water on his face, cleared the toothbrushes from the glass, gulped down a refill. Ran wet fingers through his thinning hair. The clatter of dishes continued.
Silent as a shadow, he crept back to the bedroom, dressed, and tiptoed to the hallway. Nearly toppled trying to pull on his shoes. The noise brought Katie’s head snapping around the kitchen doorframe.
“Where d’you think you’re going, you lush?”
“Katie, I just—I’ll be quick—” He snatched his jacket off the hook, backing toward the door.
“Stop right there!” She barreled toward him, but he was already out, slamming the door behind him.
“You come home, and I’ll—!” Her muffled threat chased him down the stairs, unanswered.
Outside, sunlight glittered on melting ice, the steady *drip-drip* from rooftops keeping rhythm with his pounding head. Every other man on the street clutched daffodils or tulips in bright bouquets.
“Excuse me, mate—what’s the time?” Stephen asked a passerby with a bundle of daffodils.
“Time you sobered up,” the man tossed over his shoulder.
“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Stephen muttered. He’d meant to ask where the flowers came from, but the words had tangled on his tongue.
“Lad—where’d you get those?” He hailed a younger bloke next.
“Back there.” A vague wave behind him.
Stephen trudged in that direction and soon spotted a woman by the traffic lights, a crate at her feet with fluffy daffodils poking out like eager chicks.
He hurried over—desperate to appease Katie, maybe even earn a celebratory pint if he played his cards right. But by the time he reached her, only one bedraggled stem remained in the box.
“Last one, love. Half-price for you,” she said, eyeing him with knowing sympathy.
“I need a proper bouquet. For my wife. You got nothing else?”
“Nothing else,” she echoed mockingly. “Wait if you like. I’ll call for more.”
Stephen hesitated. A lone daffodil would only anger Katie further. The steady stream of flower-toting men meant another seller had to be nearby. He moved on, then had a thought—*did he even have cash?* He patted his pockets and unearthed a crumpled twenty. No idea if it was enough.
Up ahead, a crowd swarmed a van. When he heard the price of a tulip bunch, his heart sank.
“Just one?” asked the seller, a bearded bloke with an accent.
“Only got this.” Stephen held up the twenty.
“For that, I give you one tulip. Yes?”
A single flower wouldn’t cut it. Stephen stepped away, racking his brain for options. *Leo owes me fifty quid—time to collect.* They’d drunk together, but it was Stephen’s money—that made it a debt.
The door opened a crack after his knock.
“Who is it?” Leo’s wife, Jean, was a battle-axe, keeping her husband on a tight leash. Leo called her “The Plague” behind her back.
Stephen leaned toward the keyhole. “It’s me. Leo owes me fifty. Need it now.”
Silence. Then—
“Here’s what you get!” The door flew wide—Jean’s fingers curled in a crude gesture.
Stephen yanked the door toward him. She stumbled out, the gesture now inches from his face. Behind her, Leo’s scrawny frame appeared, clad in a “Professional Drinker” T-shirt and baggy boxers.
“Leo, be a mate—!” The door slammed in his face.
He trudged away. *Should’ve checked Katie’s coat pockets—always loose change there. Bloody March—who planned a flower holiday in freezing weather?*
Defeated, he slumped onto a bench. A young man paused nearby, clutching a bouquet in paper.
“Got a fag?” he asked.
“Don’t smoke. Drink, yes—smoke, no.” Stephen eyed the red roses peeking from the bag. The lad looked gutted.
“Girl stood you up?”
“Forty minutes waiting. She’s not answering.”
“Flowers’ll freeze out here,” Stephen tsked.
“Sod it—” The lad raised the bouquet, aiming for the bin.
Stephen lunged, grabbing his wrist. “Hold on—give ’em here. For my wife. You’ve no idea the woman she is—”
The lad thrust the bouquet into his hands. “Take ’em.”
Seven roses. *Seven.* Not limp tulips—proper, velvety roses.
He hugged them to his chest and hurried home.
“Stephen! What’ve you got there—warming a bottle?” a neighbor cackled.
He flashed the bouquet.
“Givin’ up the drink? Katie’ll faint!”
“Happy Women’s Day,” he muttered, bolting upstairs.
Katie was in the kitchen. He strode in, arm outstretched with the roses, and froze like a statue.
She turned. The roses hit the table as she collapsed.
“Your heart? Need an ambulance?”
She shook her head, gaping at the flowers.
“You stole these?”
“No! Leo paid me back—”
She rose, touched the petals. “They smell…” Her eyes softened, and his chest swelled.
“Wash up. Lunch is ready,” she said, fetching the lone vase.
He scrubbed his face in the bathroom mirror. The bags under his eyes remained, but the guilt had vanished.
At the table, a bowl of steaming beef stew waited, topped with a dollop of cream. Then—a miracle—Katie pulled out the whiskey, poured him a shot.
“Join me?” he ventured.
“Five drops won’t hurt,” she smiled, filling a second glass.
They ate, watched telly, reminisced.
*Should buy her flowers more often,* he thought as he drifted off. *Pity for that lad—but lucky for me.*
He turned, gently tugging the blanket over Katie’s shoulders. Warmth filled him—something forgotten, something there wasn’t even a word for…
