It had been 7 days since I left the house when Logan showed up at my apartment carrying an enormous bouquet of red roses.
He buzzed the intercom a dozen times.
I only went downstairs because I didn't want the neighbors to keep hearing the buzzer.
Logan's shirt was badly wrinkled, and dark circles shadowed his eyes.
For the past 8 years, he had left the house every morning in freshly ironed clothes.
Apparently, he finally discovered that shirts didn't iron themselves.
He held out the roses.
"The florist said red roses are best for an apology."
Hit by the heavy scent, I stepped back.
"I never like red roses."
"We had red roses at our wedding."
"Your mom chose them. I've always been allergic to them."
We had been married for 8 years, and this was the first time he had ever had to
