Yes. It is real. Flowers of all kinds deserve to be real. So is my love. Always, E. PS: Your love of vintage has now proven costly! But please, don’t worry: we had a good week.

And flowers, there were always flowers in beautiful vases with accompanying love letters to match, and a week never passed without there being something green, even if it was a simple green ribbon tied to my coffee mug or wineglass. His gifts and thoughtfulness always took me by surprise and always had the capacity to make my heart expand just a little bit more. It seemed the gravitational pull of my heart was changing its course.

I often thought the Victorian poets were onto something with this courting business. There was something to be said about longing, about wanting, about desiring, and, yes, about waiting for the right time and the right person.

Midafternoon was slowly becoming my favorite part of the day, before patrons started trickling in, before the cooking crew came to work, before some crisis could seize our attention. It was just us, at a small table, having a cup of tea and enjoying the precious moments we had together before they were stolen from us by the day’s occupations. I felt like me. A mature me. The feeling was intoxicating.

“I was thinking of going home over the long Labor Day weekend,” I said. We had already decided to close. I felt like I could steal away without missing a beat.

“Hmm, why don’t you take the week before Labor Day off. Go see the other men in your life and then come back to me. I want us to spend Labor Day together. Spend the whole weekend in my apartment. We won’t even have to leave. I’ll cook for us.”

I understood. Elliott must prefer planned sex. It was fine by me. It gave me something to look forward to.

I played along. “I don’t want you cooking in the kitchen all the time.”

“Who says anything about cooking in the kitchen at all?” He smiled and took my hand in his. Just the way he touched me was both tender and exciting.

“Touché.” I was filled with nervousness. And I knew just who would help me with my dilemma.

“Well I sure hope to hell you’re not going to go to one of those vintage stores you like and buy some old granny nightgown,” Elle said. Both she and Reggie were home alone on a rare night and I had told them about my Labor Day plans.

“She’s right. This deserves a full-frontal assault in the department stores. Bloomingdale’s and Saks Fifth Avenue, here we come. We’ll get you all fixed up,” Reggie added, and my excitement faded quickly, thinking about my first bra purchasing experience and how long it might take for these girls to get me into proper attire.

“You think Elliott is the kind of guy that likes all that negligee stuff?” In my very limited experience, men did not seem to care too much. But I must’ve brought up a valid point because the girls looked at each other and seriously considered my question.