And who says romance is dead?

For the first time in years, you find yourself wandering home on a weekday evening while the sun is still out. You can't help but grin and smile, like some village idiot, at people as you pass them by. The other New Yorkers ignore you, as they tend to, but you don't let it dampen your mood. Even the ever-present scent of hot trash and hot dogs does not bother you. Freedom! Sweet, sweet freedom. Whoever says slavery is dead needs a healthy dose of life, you think, as you consider the shackles you're slowly shedding. Only now that you're nearing the end of the tunnel, do you realize how truly shitty your life has been for so long.

Maybe you're not quite out of the tunnel yet, but you're well on your way.

From five to two days of corporate work a week. From no days to three days with Dmitri. Real jobs, with real money behind them. What would come next?

Thoughts of everything you need to provide for your girls cross your mind: new clothes, bedding, phones, furniture. Hell, the stove only has two working burners and your living room TV is basically 240p!

And beyond that, what would happen? School, for Karina and Mia. Mia must be included, of course. You told her she is family now, and you meant it. You'll take care of her like she is your own.

You pass by a familiar street vendor. The florist from before, when you attempted to charm Nadia with a bouquet of flowers. You savor the scent as you walk past her, then pause. Why not? You turn back to the lady, who shares a gentle smile with you as you approach. She stands in a metal card with a neon light across the top, flowers of all breeds and colors splayed around her in beautiful bouquets.

"Flowers, sir?" she asks. A heavy accent, one you can't place. Eastern European? Likely, considering the area you're in.

"Three bouquets, please. White, red, and lavender roses."

The florist nods as her deft hands grab a collection of each color from a multitude of containers. Floral scissors do their work, trimming the stems, then the flowers are wrapped in a transparent plastic sheet. You hand her a hundred-dollar bill as she pushes the flowers towards you.

"Yes, thank you, thank you," she murmurs, as she cashes the bill and hands you your change. You get back far less than you expected, but what else is new?

You take the flowers and leave the woman behind. The scent of the flowers is tantalizing, and you take a whiff. For the first time in a very long time, you don't worry about the cost.