Said I had a package. I bounded out of the newsroom to claim a glass vase covered in purple tissue paper. I’d received a slew of bouquets at Boyer’s funeral, but none since. My sister had pressed some of the petals in the scrapbook. The perennials I’d replanted outside. The rest I’d donated to the nursing home where his father lived. Boyer wasn’t the kind of guy who sent flowers. He made his own traditions. Valentine’s Day he’d walk through the door carrying a life-sized chocolate gun in a gold foil box. Once I had suggested I’d bring home the candy if he would send me a dozen roses. But he had a fatalistic view on flowers. “Why would I send you something that’s just going to die?” “Flowers are romantic,” I told him. “A sentimental gesture of temporary beauty. Besides, it reminds other men at the office that I’m taken.” “Don’t they know I carry a gun? I imagine that would be more effective than flowers. Point these guys out at the next company party.”
