"Are you sure about this, Francis?"

"Yes, Mathieu. Trust me, he'll love it."


"Trust me. I am the country of love, and he has been my friend for centuries. Who would know better? That rosbif? Your brother? Please. He'll love it."

"…Alright. I'm trusting you, Francis."

"You won't regret it."


"Good afternoon, Antonio. Happy birthday!"

"Ah, Matthew! Thank you! Shouldn't you be in bed, still? Isn't it early?"

"I'm fine. I'm sorry I couldn't be there for your birthday. I tried, but my boss…you know how it is."

"I do. It's not a big deal, Matthew. I under—that's the doorbell. One minute, Matthew!"



"It was a flower delivery."


"Twenty yellow roses, all tipped with red. They're lovely! I wonder who they're from?"

"Is there a card?"

"…Oh, look! Wait, you can't see over the phone, sorry. There's another flower…a silk one. And a card."

"Are you going to read it?"

"But I'm on the phone with you. It would be rude to do something else."

"Please read it! I don't mind."

"Oh, ok. Let's see…'Dear Antonio—'"

"You really don't have to read it out loud."

"Why do you sound embarrassed? I thought you said I could read it?"

"I did! Just…not out loud!"

"Oh, ok."



"Matthew…you'll love me until the last rose dies?"

"I—I'm sorry. That's so corny, isn't it? It was Francis' idea to send all of the flowers and—"

"I love you, too, Matthew."

"I swear it was Fran—you do?"

"I do."