“Katie, love, I’m sorry…”
Henry cracked one eye open and immediately winced. The pale March sun was slicing through the window, stabbing right into his face with its merciless glare. He shifted on the crumpled sheets, trying to dodge the light.
“Awake at last, then?” His wife’s voice cut through the air. “Open those shameful eyes, I want to look into ’em. Every other bloke out there buys flowers, treats his wife nice. And what do you do? Get yourself hammered last night. You even remember what day it is?”
Henry squirmed back against the wall, finally prying his eyes open through the narrow slits, like some soldier peering through a bunker. Katie stood there, arms firmly planted on her hips, glaring.
“W-what day?” he stammered, genuinely confused.
“International Women’s Day, you daft git! Supposed to be my day, and instead, you’re pickled. Can’t stand the sight of you. No shame at all, have you? Thought we’d have a quiet evening, a bit of wine. Our Emma even brought me a nice bottle—hid it special for today. And what do you do? Swipe it and down it all yourself. Vodka not enough for you?”
Before Henry could shield himself, a slipper—hurled with deadly aim—thwacked him right in the forehead.
“That’s for starters…”
He barely dodged the second one by diving under the duvet. Small mercies—she only had the two. He poked his nose out.
“Katie, love, I’m sorry. Swear I’ll make it right,” Henry hiccuped, struggling to untangle himself from the sheets.
His wife waved him off and vanished into the kitchen. The clatter of dishes followed—never a good sign. When she banged pots like that, it meant she was proper cross, and the row was far from over.
Best to make himself scarce. Henry sidled past the kitchen to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, cleared the toothbrushes from the mug, gulped it down. He slicked back his thinning hair with a damp hand while Katie kept up her furious symphony of clattering.
Quiet as a mouse, he slipped back into the bedroom, dressed, and crept to the front door. As he wrestled with his shoes, he wobbled—nearly toppling over. At the noise, Katie poked her head out.
“Where d’you think you’re going, you lush?”
“Katie, love, I’ll just—be right back…” He yanked his jacket off the hook and backed toward the door.
“Oi, don’t you dare!” She barrelled toward him, but he was already out, slamming the door behind him.
“You just wait till you get back, I’ll—!” The rest was lost as he hurried down the stairs.
Outside, the sun was bright, icicles dripping from eaves, patches of worn pavement peeking through melted frost. Everywhere he looked, men strolled past clutching bright yellow daffodils or bouquets of tulips.
“Mate, you got the time?” Henry asked a bloke holding a bunch of cheerful daffs.
“Time you sobered up,” the man tossed over his shoulder.
“Wouldn’t say no,” Henry muttered and shuffled on.
He’d meant to ask where the flowers came from, but his brain wasn’t cooperating.
“Lad, where’d you get those?” he tried again, stopping a younger chap.
“Down there.” A vague wave behind him.
“Right.” Henry set off.
Soon, he spotted a woman by the traffic lights, a box at her feet stuffed with fluffy daffodil stems poking out like eager chicks.
Henry hurried over. Desperate to sweeten Katie up—maybe even earn himself a celebratory pint later. But when he reached her, only one scraggly stem remained at the bottom.
“Take it, love—I’ll knock a bit off,” she said, eyeing him knowingly.
“Need something nicer. For the wife. You got anything else?”
“Not a scrap,” she mimicked him. “Wait if you like—I’ll call for more.”
Henry hesitated. One sad daffodil wouldn’t cut it. The steady stream of flower-toting men told him there had to be another stall.
Digging through his pockets, he found a crumpled fiver. No idea what flowers cost these days. A crowd gathered around a car boot up ahead. At the quoted price for tulips, his heart sank.
“Just the one?” asked a bearded vendor with a thick accent.
“Only got this.” Henry held up the battered note.
“Eh, for that? One flower. Yes?”
One tulip wouldn’t mend things any better than the daffodil. Defeated, he shuffled off.
Who owed him money? His foggy brain latched onto a memory—Tom owed him twenty quid! Right, that was it. They’d drank it together, but Henry had fronted the cash. So by rights, Tom owed him.
He hurried to Tom’s.
“Who is it?” came a sharp voice through the door. Susan, Tom’s missus—a right dragon who kept him on a tight leash. The rare times he escaped, he made up for it hard.
“Henry. Need to talk to Tom—he owes me twenty!”
Silence. Then—
“Here’s what you can take!” The door cracked open just enough for a hand to flip him the bird.
Henry reacted fast—yanked the door wider. Susan stumbled out, her middle finger just missing his nose. Behind her, Tom peeped out in a ratty ‘I heart beer’ tee and saggy boxers.
“Tom, mate, c’mon—” The door slammed shut.
“Bollocks.”
Where else? Maybe he should’ve checked the coat pockets at home—Katie always left spare change in hers. Back in the day, he’d just plucked flowers from the park. Who decided to stick Women’s Day in March, when nothing bloody grew?
No way was he coming home empty-handed. He trudged on, avoiding eye contact with every smug flower-carrier. Lost in self-pity, he slipped on ice—just caught himself before eating pavement. Legs shaking, he collapsed onto a bench.
Thirst clawed at him, stomach growling. Not a bite since yesterday. No telling when Katie would feed him again—if ever, unless he turned up with a bouquet.
Then he remembered—how they’d met, how he’d carried her home once, dead drunk and giggling. Back then, he’d brought her flowers every other day—though usually nicked from public gardens. A close call with the cops once. Two kids later, here they were. Where had it all gone?
Sighing, he nearly gave up—might as well spend the fiver on a few beers—when a lad walked by with a bouquet in a paper sleeve.
“Got a fag?” the lad asked, pausing by the bench.
“Don’t smoke. Drink, yeah—just not fags,” Henry said, eyeing the red roses poking from the bag.
The lad looked miserable.
“Girl stood you up?” Henry guessed.
“Waited forty minutes. Freezing my arse off. She’s not answering.”
“Flowers’ll freeze too,” Henry tutted.
“Sod it—” The lad drew back to chuck them in the bin.
Henry lunged, gripping his wrist.
“Hold on—don’t bin ’em! Give ’em here. I’ll take ’em to the wife.” He didn’t get to elaborate before the lad shoved the bouquet into his hands.
“Take it.” And with that, he stalked off, hands jammed in pockets.
Henry sat stunned. Seven roses. Seven! Not some wilty tulips—proper roses!
He glanced after the lad—no second thoughts? Tucking the bouquet inside his jacket, he hurried home.
“Henry, what’ve you got there? Warming a bottle?” Mrs. Jenkins called from the steps.
He flashed the bouquet.
“Giving up the drink, are you? Good on yeh! Katie’ll be chuffed.”
“Yeah, yeah, happy Women’s Day,” he muttered, barrelling inside.
Climbing the stairs, he felt lighter, taller, like he’d won the bloody lottery. Katie wouldn’t see this coming. Only given her roses twice before—when he proposed and when she came home with Emma.
Every flat door wafted tempting smells—his stomach roared in protest. He swallowed dryly, mouth parched.
He toed off his shoes inside—Katie wouldn’t forgive muddy prints, roses or not. That woman had an arm on her, could hit him with a slipper from across the room.
“Had your fun?” she called from the kitchen. Uncanny, how she always knew.
He stepped in, thrust the roses forward, frozen like a statue.
When no response came, she finally turned. The second she saw them, she gasped, pressed wet hands to her chest, and nearly slid to the floor.
Henry dumped the flowers on the table and caught her.
“”They sipped their tea in comfortable silence, the roses glowing like embers between them, and for the first time in years, the weight of the world felt just a little lighter.”
