The First Man I Bought Flowers For
is who I'm thinking of this Valentine's Day
Our story started the way all the best ones do — I was drunk and don’t remember meeting him. It was probably the middle of the week, my new friends and I were temporarily unemployed at the time, and we lay in a park on top of makeshift picnic blankets tending to more wine than bread and cheese. We had all met a few days ago at our teaching program’s orientation. Our circle widened as more incoming teachers joined us on the grass. The sky swallowed the sun as I sat next to a young man with pretty eyelashes.
We met weeks later by accident. I was brunching with a friend when she whispered that someone from our program just walked into the café. He nervously touched his floppy brunette curls and reintroduced himself, thankfully adding how we knew each other, before joining our table upon my invitation. God knows this man wouldn’t have sat with us unless insisted to, partly because he doesn’t like to insert himself but mostly because new people and women and especially new women make him nervous. My friend left a few minutes later. It was just the two of us. I could have left, and he would’ve let out a sigh of relief. But what fun would that have been?
Like petals in fast-forward bloom, I unfolded through more phases in the following months than I had in the past few years, though not necessarily with equal flourish. I pushed through skirmishes with family a seven-hour time difference away, fell into infatuation with countless romantic situations, was drowned out in chatty Spanish classrooms until learning how to earn their attention, and generally wrestled with insanity before I settled into contentment with my life in Spain. Robert was a constant. This is reflective, too, of his steady living. He works hard without complaint at a school that demands more than it should, reads fantasy books at his favorite café often, protects his Thursday nights to watch a show with his brother back home, and explores new restaurants with the same group of friends from the park. He jokes that my erratic storylines enrich his stable ones. I think about how he has grounded me during dizzying personal plot twists. Robert never seems to think I’m too much. He always shows up.
Before we knew each other's last names, Robert met me outside the apartment of a stranger from Facebook Marketplace to carry a sizable rug toward my new apartment in peak summer heat. He pretended to need breaks and placed the rug on the pavement when my arms grew tired.
While I was en route to my first date with a man who only spoke Spanish, Robert told me the story of how his father learned Spanish for his mother and that maybe I would have a similar love story. I did not. He helped me find meaning in that, too.
Robert appeared at my doorstep during one of our many dinner hangouts, but once with a box of chocolates. I was confused because I hadn’t had a bad day. He went to the grocery store beforehand to pick up the extra tomato sauce I asked for and saw a Lindt Lindor truffles box, and he knows how much I like chocolate.
Close friends from university visited me, and on the top of my hosting plans was introducing them to Robert. Anjali came and the three of us sat outside San Ginés dipping oily churros in thick chocolate. I returned from the bathroom to see two people close to my heart from different parts of my life laughing in the winter chill. The mental snapshot remains engrained.
Seated at the other side of my bed swallowing 1 a.m. yawns, Robert held my gaze while I dove into unnecessary detail about our two weeks apart during the winter holidays. He listened to me dissect the flavor profile of a pistachio croissant I inhaled in Krakow and the dim yellow lighting of the coffee shop in Vienna as if any of it was important, but it is important, he reminded me, because I care about it.
On the last night before I went on said trip, a night I was supposed to spend with someone I had been dating but suddenly wasn’t anymore, Robert made sure I wasn’t alone. That night I traded makeup and a flattering outfit for a freshly-washed face and grey sweatpants. Robert and I walked around Christmas markets under the stars, and I thanked them for bringing me the right person that night.
I knew what it would be like when Robert got his bouquet. I have long memorized the crescendo of his laughter and the shape of his embrace. He looked at me kindly and not with the intention to circle the soft of my skin or rough the edges of my psyche. I am used to pretending not to notice the lustful fire in men’s eyes, but his sparkled with sweetness. I had never experienced friendship with a man like this before, one built with unquestioning, unwavering respect and admiration and care. I surprised myself when I told him I loved him, but the words didn’t slip out. They were in my throat, waiting for my lips to part.