He bought me flowers. Flowers! The timing of their presentation, however, was rather problematic in that I’d just asked, “So, how was your day?” only to be led to a table in the back of the sushi restaurant marked “reserved” upon which a bottle of wine and the bright pink bouquet were waiting. When faced with such a veritable onslaught of romantic accoutrements, I lost my ability to speak. I also lost my ability to listen, which was unfortunate because Date #17 was telling me about his most recent client meeting and as he works in a field I know nothing about, it’s hard enough for me to follow the conversation when I’m not singing to myself, “He bought me flowers! He bought me flowers! He bought me flowers!”
It’s not that I’ve never been on the receiving end of a floral transaction before, it’s just that it’s been… well, a rather long time. Three years, come to think of it, and I’ve had two boyfriends since then, which just goes to show that I haven’t always had the best taste in men.
Date #17, however, is living proof that I’ve grown more discerning in later years. He’s gainfully employed. He has a very nice apartment (not that I’ve already cased the joint…) and he writes clever emails. He also has a sense of humor that actually makes me laugh, and he’s equally well-versed in the art of serious conversation.
Nonetheless, I still assumed that the waitress had made a mistake when she led us to the table with the flowers perched atop the tablecloth. I mean, seriously, in this day and age, how often does a girl get flowers on a third date? How often does a girl get flowers period? And lest you think the flowers were the highlight of our third date, they were just the tip of the iceberg.
I feel as though I ought to start weaning myself of my kiss and tell tendencies, now that I’ve found a man who’s cured me of the desire to log onto Match.com every three seconds, but weaning is an incremental process, so here goes:
He took me to dinner (Hakari in Northern Liberties), then hailed a cab and instructed the driver to take us to the Suzanne Roberts Theatre on Broad Street. “Why the Suzanne Roberts Theatre?” you ask. Because one of Philadelphia’s resident modern dance companies was giving a concert, of course.
I would like to state that I neither angled, hinted nor otherwise beseeched Date #17 for tickets to the Koresh concert— at all. He came up with the idea completely on his own and when I started crying in the middle of concert (as I’m wont to do evidently), he just held my hand, cracked a quick joke and assured me that I hadn’t ruined my makeup, waiting until we were outside the theatre to inquire, “If you don’t mind me asking, what was that about in there? Are you okay?” If that’s not evolved male behavior, I don’t know what is.
Unfortunately, in my good sense, I allowed our date to linger well beyond my mid-week bedtime. And my mid-week drink limit (two glasses of wine with dinner, a third during intermission and finally a post-concert espresso martini at Mixto, consumed at an hour during which espresso ought never to be consumed. Date #17 brought this fact to my attention before I placed my order: Are you sure you want espresso now? Won’t it keep you awake? But I was feeling impetuous, and so I ordered my espresso martini and, as predicted, slept barely a wink. I suspect however, that this was not the fault of the espresso. It was the fault of Date #17. And his evolved man tendencies. And the flowers. It’s awfully difficult to sleep when you’re still singing to yourself, “He bought me flowers. He bought me flowers. He…”)