Writing prompt: You return home to discover a huge flower bouquet waiting for you, no card attached. Who is it from — and why did they send it to you?

I came home late because of work on a Friday night. Tired, annoyed, and frustrated, I finally set foot on the porch. Waiting for me there was a lovely bunch of flowers. No notes. No explanations. Where in the world did it come from? This is one of those times saying “I deserve an explanation!” is proper.
I search my mind for answers as I walk into the living room. I wouldn’t have admirers. The arch of my eyebrows are enough to make people believe I’m mean and that would make them interact less frequently with me, which means I can’t ever dispel their fear of me being mean. I could have sent me flowers, but this month’s schedule is tough so I don’t have time to actually go on such quirky business.
I don’t want to think much about who did it or why. So I just shrug my shoulders and conclude that it’s my alter ego’s doing. Or were the flowers simply delivered to the wrong address?



I don't know who I am, and that is why I write.

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