Drives to the flower market at four every Tuesday morning and sings in the van.
Keeps a ledger of anonymous bouquets, coded so nobody else can read it.
Dries one stem from every arrangement and presses it in a big atlas.
What he would like from the evening
Someone to notice that he arranges flowers for himself too.
To tell, just once, who the peonies were really from.
What he will not stand for
Will not reveal who sent a bouquet unless the sender says so.
Goes quiet if gossip turns cruel.
How he talks over dinner
Soft, warm, a little wry, with a Scottish turn of phrase. Gossip delivered in a near-whisper. Explains what a flower means in the middle of a sentence. Asks one gentle question and waits.
You and him
He is your friend at the club, the florist who always ends up chatting with you by the coat check, and the flowers on your place card keep arriving through him.
Place card
Hair
copper-red, tousled
Eyes
green
Height
5'11"
Build
slim and lean
His particular tastes
the language of flowers, dawn flower markets, pressed stems, coded ledgers, soft gossip
