I stifle a sigh as I open the door to an enormous bunch of flowers with a pair of legs sticking out of the bottom. It’s not the delivery person’s—I say person because I currently have no idea if they’re male or female—fault, after all. Not their fault that my ex-boyfriend really doesn’t know me at all.

Realising I haven’t yet spoken, I say, “Yes, can I help you?”

“Oh, sorry,” a voice says. “I have a delivery for Miss Brooks.”

“That’s me.” I reach out and carefully take the bouquet, stepping back to place it in my hallway. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I see now that the delivery person is in fact a woman around the same age as me, hair pulled into a ponytail and a genuine smile on her face. “You’re a lucky woman,” she adds, gesturing to the flowers. “He must really love you. That’s the most expensive arrangement we have.”

“You have no idea,” I reply, faking a smile.

“Bye then.” She turns and heads back to her van.

“Thanks, bye.”

I close the door, twist the key in the lock, then lean my head against the cool wood and let out the sigh I’d previously stifled. I meant the part about her having no idea in a sarcastic way, really, but I hadn’t wanted her to know that. She was just being kind.

Finally, I pull myself together, pick up the flowers and take them into the kitchen. They’re nice enough, if you like that sort of thing. Which I don’t. If they’re in a garden or a pot, yes. But cut them, and soon they’ll die, withering away on a windowsill or a table. Such a colossal waste of money, especially since I don’t sit at home looking at my windowsill or table all day. I have better things to do.

I just don’t get the point of flowers, never have. They’re a gesture, sure. But if you’re going to make a gesture, an apology, a declaration of love or whatever, then for god’s sake make an effort to find out what the intended recipient likes!

He should know better, he really should. If, after three years, he thinks that flowers will melt my heart and open my legs, then he’s more clueless than I ever imagined.

The bouquet has served a purpose, though. They’ve made me even more positive I made the right decision in breaking up with him. I mean, he bought me flowers, despite my mentioning on several occasions that I don’t like them and that I think they’re a waste of money. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. Once, he took me to a seafood restaurant, totally forgetting my fish allergy. Another time, a trip to the cinema had seemed like a good idea, until I realised he’d booked tickets to a film starring an actor I loathe and despise—and that can’t even act.

I’d tried so many times to work out whether he was just an idiot, or whether...

Does He Know Me At All?