HER

One time I skateboarded eight miles to put a rose on this dame's stoop. It was a sticky August night eleven years ago and the time was about 4am. I had just finished my paper route and was feeling exceptionally amorous. For those of you who are too young to remember the old urethane skateboard wheels, let me learn you some. They were not designed to roll over rocks; in fact they were designed to stop upon the smallest object and propel the rider forward with tremendous force. And back country roads were not designed to be debris-free. Also, for those of you who have never ridden a skateboard eight miles to put a rose on a dame's stoop, let me tell you there is nothing worse than being stopped by the long arm of the law.
"No, sir. I didn't know there had been a rash of petty burglaries around here. No, sir. I am just finishing up my paper route; nothing suspicious here. Thank you, sir. I will be careful."
Unfortunately, the plan to profess my young love had been thwarted. It wasn't until December that I felt ready for another go at it. This time I walked four miles in knee-deep snow to go to the florist. It may be essential to point out that my shyness in matters of the heart made Hemingway's broken men look like Dennis the Menace's father. Nonetheless, halfway there my friend drove by with his dad. Boggled as to why I refused their generous offer for a ride, and why I could offer no explanation other than, "I don't know," when asked what the hell I was doing, they drove away.
Well, that dame got one dozen roses complete with a sappy message. And I got a thank you two weeks later. Although time has faded the sound of her laugh and erased my picture of her face, I still remember her smell. To this day, whenever I smell her hair spray, I smile and chuckle to myself. For this, I retain a place for her in my heart. Happy Valentine's Day.