He found her later, heaped on the floor, sparkling in red colored sugar and smudged with pink icing, weeping. She was lovely: yellow crumbs sprinkled like petals along her skirt, pure white folds and pink ribbons through her hair. Tears gushed from eyes as she turned them up toward him, as if too distraught for words.

He was too perfect, hair tousled and coat thrown haphazardly over one arm. It wasn't fair for him to be so perfect, she decided miserably. At least she would like to have made up for everything else not being as wonderful as he made them—just once—on her own. The flowers he held, cradled in one arm, were still fresh; the ones she had set on the table were already wilted.

His eyes widened in his cheerful face and he bit his lip until he was no longer cheerful but concerned. It wasn't fair that she worry him today—today of all days. This wasn't supposed to happen. She quickly wiped her eyes and made to stand, but her feet got tangled in her skirts and she only got halfway before collapsing again. She braced herself on the counter to try again but this time he got there first.

He dropped the perfect bouquet on the grubby counter, kneeling down and folding her into his arms. He bit his lip as she sobbed into his shoulder, shushing her and whispering soothing phases. This wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to come home to her smiling today—today of all days. He glanced around, wondering what could have gone so wrong.

The cake, he supposed, was what had done it. There was icing everywhere: beginning with the floor, covering the counter tops, and gracing the ceiling. He could only imagine what happed. She pulled back suddenly, wiping her eyes and he helped her to her feet. In a horse voice, she chokingly explained how the cake had collapsed and the candles fell over and she had dropped the cupcakes and dinner was burned—that explained the smoke—and nothing had gone right.

He started to laugh. Her head jerked up and she stared at him for a moment while he tried to explain between chuckles. It had been a terrible day. He had coffee spilled down the front of him, he had forgotten some of his papers on the desk, and he forgot to gel his hair that morning so he had taken the bottle with him. During the day, it had opened and spilled all over his papers. The only thing that had gone right was the flower shop had reserved him a special bouquet. It was the only thing that had made up for everything.

He looked wonderful, she assured him, managing a soft laugh. What a terrible day for both of them. Sheepishly, she brushed herself off and announced that the vegetables had not burned. Shrugging, he grinned wryly, mentioning that the Chinese restaurant down the street had been empty when he passed by.