Feb 13th, 2023

Sometimes I wonder why lovers hold hands when they walk around. I wonder how long they have been dating. Are they in that new stage, where it feels like they have to hold on tight, constantly let the other person know that they are there, that they aren’t going anywhere, that they want to touch them, that they want to be touched. Or is it the older couples, the ones who have been together for longer that hold hands. A gesture they don’t even realize they’re doing, their fingers just mindlessly reaching for each other, keeping their connection as they pace around the city. Why can’t they just walk next to each other. No, they must be chained together for the world to see, for the world to take notice. That they are not alone, they are a pair, a pair of hands, holding on tight.

It’s such a mindless action for them, but lately, it’s all that fills my mind. My eyes flick from touch to touch, the way he rests his hand on her shoulder for a minute, the way she leans against him as the bus moves quickly. It’s like I’m cataloging the motion of the world around me, by what I have and I don’t have. Time also makes it a bit harder. About a month ago, I had a boy whose hand could find its place on my leg, on my palm, on my back. Those hands are gone and time has passed, and instead of hours wasting away in the bliss of his studio apartment, I ride
the bus and silently judge. It’s funny how quickly bitterness returns after the sweetness of having a lover around has faded from your tongue. Maybe it’s even worse after you’ve had a little taste of it yourself. I can’t imagine what my face looks like when I’m on the bus near a couple. I have been blessed with a resting bitch face that I gave up trying to overcome. I am one to stare. Maybe that’s something I should work on.

It doesn’t feel fair to say that it is February 13th, the day before the day. And that I am sitting alone on my computer watching college age sweethearts pass by, none the wiser to my ill placed judgment. Besides the constant notice I am taking of couples touching, I have also been thinking about flowers. More specifically, how I want a man to get me flowers. Now don’t worry, there is no chance I will be receiving flowers tomorrow, but my hopes to receive flowers from a male suitor one day have been increasing by the minute. Is this truly a sweet gesture of love or has capitalism and public opinion finally infiltrated every aspect of my being? What about flowers, especially from a man, is so sweet, so tantalizing to me?

Floriography Interlude (sometime between February 2023 and February 2024)

So I started my research into the history of Valentine’s Day and was quickly deterred by a varying of opinions, dates, and frankly too much contrasting information. It could have been a pagan holiday, the time of year when birds start mating, or the month when St. Valentine sent a letter to his lover signed “your valentine”. However, I did come across something else interesting that caught my eye: Floriography. A secret language and meaning for flowers that dates back to the Renaissance era, but really became a real concept during the Victorian Era. It is clear that giving flowers as a sign of affection has been a tradition for a long time. But maybe not even simply affection, but the tradition of gifting certain flowers with a distinct and sly meaning. During a time when young people especially were restricted in what they could do and say in terms of love, they found a unique way to communicate their emotions with potential suitors. Kate Greenaway, an artist and writer from the time, even wrote a whole “dictionary” describing the meaning of each flower in 1884. Receiving blue violets could have meant faithfulness whereas white roses signified the man’s worth of the woman he was hoping to impress. These findings were all together quite comical for me, in addition to quelling a bit of the judgment that I had towards myself for wanting flowers so badly. Who can fault me for wanting a beautiful bouquet, whether it was a secret message in the Victorian Era, or a clear act of care and love in today’s world.

End of Interlude

[on the desire to receive flowers] As a girl who has never had a boyfriend I think I know why. I’m 20, about a month away from 21. I’ve seen my fair share of men in my time (not to boast, it’s actually a reasonably low number), and unfortunately none of them have popped the question. I have what my roommate has termed the 3 month curse. I see a man for three months, he treats me like I’m his girlfriend or could be, then I ask him what we are, he says we aren’t serious and he can’t be exclusive, and then I promptly walk away because I’m not trying to be used. This has truly only happened twice, but let me tell you, once was more than enough for me. I’m pretty sure flowers are only something that a boyfriend gives to a girl, or at least a guy who wants to be her boyfriend. Sex, nights in bed, breakfast in the morning, pizza dates, movie marathons, sweet texts; now these are things that a man can give a woman when he’s having his cake and eating it too. When he’s treating her like his girlfriend, but the labels are unclear, and he can consider fucking other people, and not have to really worry all that much about the future or her feelings. If he gave her flowers, then he would not be able to justify having his cake and eating it too. It would be too clear of a sign that he is treating her like his girlfriend, and she would be able to drag his ass even more than she already could.

All of this is to get to the simple point that it is objectively nice to be cared about. It is nice to have someone commit to you, in whatever way that may be. It is nice to feel they are giving what they are taking. It is nice to get a bunch of colorful, yummy smelling blossoms, to put in a vase on your bedside table, and look at, and think to yourself, someone cares about me, and they aren’t afraid to show it.

February 13th, 2024

The first time I received flowers from a boy, I was too overwhelmed to even really enjoy them. The funny thing is, about 6 days after I wrote the first bitter rant on this living document, I met the boy who would, as I said “pop the question”; my first boyfriend. About five months later, he was waiting for me outside the Portland Airport in his green Subaru, holding a bouquet of yellow flowers that to this day, I still feel certain his mom picked up for me.

(So maybe this whole flower dictionary is a moot point if his mom was the one to pick them out. But according to the completely legitimate and reputable words of Kate Greenwood from 1884, the sunflowers in the bouquet meant adoration. And maybe at that exact moment it did. When I look back on those moments with him, I really hope they did.)

This was one of the best moments of my summer. I had a boyfriend, I was in his hometown across the country, and he had a goddamn bouquet of flowers. Time is a funny thing because last Valentine’s day I hadn’t even met this boy yet, and this Valentine’s day marks about four months since we’ve broken up. So much can happen in a year, and so little can happen in a relationship. I’m going to be honest, that relationship did fill the hole that I was seeking it to fill. In some way, I have left behind that desperation to once, just once, have someone slow down and want to label this thing called spending time with me. To invite me to their home and let me meet their family.

All of those actions meant so much to me. The spring we got to know each other was marked by the smell of cherry blossoms and snuggling in a twin bed. The summer that brought weeks of distance, but then one week that I had been counting down to, where I felt closer to him, the closest I had ever felt to a boy. His hand never left my thigh as he drove me around Oregon, showing me the beach, the city, and all the secret little special places he had grown up in. But summer ends, the fall breeze blows in. And relationships end. Sooner than I would have ever wanted it to. Words I was waiting for him to say, never uttered, and instead, the decision to end something before it really even became what it could have been.

I can thankfully say that time has not made me more bitter. I no longer look at couples strolling around campus and the city as characters in my villain origin story. I look at them with a soft smile, and think how lucky they are to get to experience love. Who knows if they are happy, or content. But if they are, I am happy for them, genuinely. Maybe a little jealous still, but no longer angry at them. They have found a person to stick by, someone to care about them, that they care about. Someone to proudly hand them a cluster of flowers, dripping with pollen and adoration. And one day, I hope that can be me again.

-Molly Stites

Molly Stites grew up in a small coastal town in Maine. She has always loved storytelling, both about herself and others. She traveled down the east coast all the way to Washington DC for college, where she currently studies Film and Creative Writing at American University. She dreams of sharing stories with the world, whether on screen or on paper. Despite the distance from home, her pen draws her to write about the rocky coasts and icy waters back home. Her writing encompasses the experiences of young women, focusing on girlhood, love, home, and friendship, with nature as a force that ties her language and visuals together.