The weather here has been excruciatingly hot and very dry, and our front lawn is brown and parched. The only spots of green are the weeds that thrive in all conditions. Numerous daisies had popped up all over the brown expanse, and Ron picked one for me as a means of weed eradication.
Still, a flower is a flower. I beamed at him, thanked him profusely, and hugged him tightly before I hurried to the cupboard for a vase.
"It was only a joke," Ron protested as I filled the vase with water. 'You don't have to do that."
"Yes I do," I replied, and plopped the single daisy into a green glass vase too big for one flower. "That was so sweet of you. I love getting flowers." Was that a blatant hint or what?
The next day, I came home from work to find the green vase full of daisies, along with a single stem of Queen Anne's lace.
My joy knew no bounds. Again, I hugged and kissed my thoughtful husband, who protested weakly.
"I'm going to mow tomorrow, so why not bring a few into the house, since you like them and I would have cut them down anyway."
What a guy. How should I repay his thoughtfulness?
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