2
“So, how do you know Daisy and Harry?” the smiling stranger asks.
We’re settling into our discomfort together, though there’s definitely a tension in the air. The sexual tension between our shared awkwardness and the impending proposal, perhaps?
The sexual tension between the hot stranger and I?
“I went to university with them. I lived with Harry in my first flat in halls, and Daisy lived in the flat next door. We watched their entire love story play out in front of us.” I explain, trying not to grimace at the memories of that particular PDA-filled journey. He smirks like he knows I want to grimace anyway. “What about you?”
“I used to work with Harry,” he says, sitting back on the box again.
I raise an eyebrow at the man. Something about the full-sleeve tattoos, nose ring, and long, wild, and curly hair makes me think he must be lying. Harry works in insurance for God’s sake.
“We worked at a bar together when he had just moved here,” he clarifies with a smirk, watching my eyes snake over him. Man, I’ve got to stop eye-fucking him.
“I was going to say that you don’t look like you work in insurance,” I say, smirking back. And he really doesn’t. But I could see him working in a bar. In between modelling gigs though. Or maybe when the drug-selling business is slow? Does it get slow periods??
“What do I look like I do?” he asks, planting his hands behind him and looking at me from beneath his strong brow.
“Ride motorcycles. Model maybe,” I say all too quickly and in a way that makes it verrrrry clear I’ve been thinking about it.
The most punchable smirk envelops his face.
“I can’t drive a car, never mind a motorbike,” he says, winking and then adding, “But I am very photogenic,”
And in that moment, I hate my gin-brain and my uncontrollable mouth because it really just hit me that I told a guy I met ten minutes ago that he could be a model. Like, am I 13 and trying to flirt????
This isn’t MSN, Delaney. Get a grip.
“Yeah, one of the many, many reasons you could be a model,” I say, as the anxious lady in my brain looks at me like what the fuck did I just tell you .
It’s honestly impressive the speed at which my filter fucks off when I even look at alcohol. Sober-me is going to have to hide under the covers for a week after this .
“Oh,” he says, eyebrows quirking and the smirk broadening to egotistical levels “What else about me is model-like then?”
And even though I have a short and silent fight with the drunk part of my brain, she overpowers the tiny, little sober part that is left and I say, “Well, you’re attractive and you’ve got that dark, brooding thing that designers like, I suppose”
Mentally, I roll my eyes and accept the fact that I’ll, hopefully, never see this beautiful stranger again so at least I won’t have to relive being a colossal twat.
“Brooding?” he asks.
I nod, trying to refocus on the conversation and ignoring the scuffle my anxiety is losing against drunk-Delaney and her massive gob.
I study him for a moment, thinking that perhaps my initial assessment is wrong. He’s not brooding. Not really. He seems like a happy person. Obviously, far too carefree to brood. And, like, what does this incredibly attractive guy have to brood over—apart from being as awkward as I am about public proposals?
I bet that’s his only flaw. Stupid handsome stranger.
“Are you still a bartender?” I ask, trying to get to the bottom of what he actually does. Will he admit he’s a drug dealer or am I going to find out he’s something as insufferable as a solicitor and I’ve just caught him in between haircuts ?
He shakes his head, “I’m a florist,”
I snort another horrifying snort, too startled to care because this man, this maaaaan , is not a florist.
“Yeah, and I fly unicorns at the Rainbow Derby,” I say, rolling my eyes at him and waiting for a proper answer as if I’m a teacher waiting to hear who really put the class pet in the dollhouse.
It wasn’t me and the stupid guinea pig was fine, okay?
“I really am,” he says, grinning, “A full-time florist,”
“Is florist code for drug dealer?” I ask, sceptically, “I’m not really down with the cool kids so I’ve never known all the drug lingo,”
I mean, he could be, right? When I first started at university, I quickly learned that there are ‘codes’ for things like that. I’m not cool enough to ever use one of the said codes, but they sure do exist.
He laughs, “I can tell you that not calling it ‘drug lingo’ is rule number one of the cool kids club,”
Ugh. I bet he’s their president. He definitely looks like he knows cool drug codes. I suppose as a drug dealer that comes in handy.
I sigh, “Failed the entrance exam again,” I say, and then I continue, “So, ‘florist’,” I say, doing those air quote thingys and leaning forward on my chair, “What’s your name? Daffodil?” I ask, biting my cheeks at my own joke.
I am so funny .
He laughs, “It’s Miles,” he says.
I do a mental jig at making him laugh again because, of course, I do.
“Miles the florist,” I say, thoughtfully, tapping my finger on my chin for a moment and then raising an eyebrow and fixing him with a stare, “That’s definitely made up, sorry,”
He laughs again, shaking his head and folding his arms across his chest, “You’re very distrusting,” he says, frowning.
“You are a man,” I state.
He snorts and I grin.
See, even models who might be drug dealers who are posing as florists snort—it’s not just me!
“Okay, distrusting lady,” he says, “What’s your name?”
“Daffodil,” I deadpan. He laughs a proper laugh, and I add, “Daff for short,”
I grin as he laughs a little harder. At least when I’m having a full-blown mental breakdown about having been a cringey, awkward mess tonight, I can give myself little pep talks about how funny Miles-the-handsome-florist found my bad jokes.
I mentally high-five myself and miss.
I think that making this very pretty man laugh is probably my greatest achievement this week. This month.
My life, if my mother had anything to say about it.
“Okay fine,” I say, grinning, “It’s Delaney, ”
“Nice to meet you, Delaney,” he says, grinning at me like it is, in fact, nice to meet me.
“Nice to meet you too, Miles,” I say, sticking my hand out. He looks at it warily and then shakes it.
“You’re very distrusting too,” I say, frowning as we shake.
“You are a woman,” he deadpans.
“We’ll have none of that in this room, mister,”
He laughs and holds his hands up. Then he changes the subject. Probably best for his physical safety. No one, not a single person on this planet, wants me to go on a feminist rant after drinking gin.
“What do you do, Delaney?” he asks.
“I’m a florist,” I say, seriously.
He snorts, “You’re going to look so silly when you find out I’m not lying,”
I grin, “Okay, okay, you’re a florist,” I say, holding my hands up and making a mental note to Urban Dictionary ‘florist,’ because men with facial piercings and Dr Martens aren’t florists–I don’t care what he says.
“So, you’re a florist too?” he says, grinning.
I nod, “In my case, a florist is a code for ‘I work in podcast production,’,”
He snorts, “Sorry, I’m not down with the podcast lingo,”
“Only the coolest kids know it,” I say, shrugging my shoulders and feigning resignation .
“What exactly do you do in podcast production?” he asks, sitting back again, this time reaching to plant his hands on the box behind him. He’s looking at me like he’s actually interested, and it sparks something in me. A bit of crazy probably.
“Mostly research,” I say, “It can be fun,” I add, realising I want him to ask more. I want to talk to him. Properly.
“What shows do you work on?” he asks.
“Well, this week I’ve been creating scripts for a show about witches which has been pretty cool,” I say, and then I admonish myself. It’s probably not the time to rhapsodise about the microcosmic ways witch trials reflect the modern-day response to any woman who is ‘other’.
But he asks, “Like the history of them?” and the other crazy lady in my brain, the one who pushes the anxious lady out of the way so she can wax poetic about feminism, starts banging her fists on the table in excitement.
I nod, “It’s probably boring to everyone else on the planet,” I add, trying to act shy like I don’t want to go on a 3-hour rant about it.
He frowns, “Why?”
“I don’t know,” I say, knowing exactly why and suddenly feeling incredibly self-conscious as he continues to look at me like he can see into my soul.
“Well, I think witches are kind of cool,” he says, “I read a thing recently about how witches are meant to represent, like, anti-capitalism. How they were hated because of the fact they didn’t prescribe to their limits of the gender and lived in a very circular way,”
My mouth falls open and I nod a little bit too vigorously. “Oh my god, yes,” I say, “This whole episode I wrote was about witches as anti-capitalist symbols and how their symbiotic ways of living go against the ideas of over-consumption that late-stage capitalism relies on,”
“Yes,” he says, “They’re all about the earth and giving back and stuff, right?”
I nod, “The idea is that we’re all part of the earth, you know?” I say, restraining the rant about Climate Justice because this poor guy doesn’t need witches and my rants about how we need to make radical change now for a livable planet in the future.
He nods, “It’s so interesting, honestly. And anyway, anyone who finds anti-capitalist icons boring is boring in my book,”
I grin, “Wow, a political florist. Who knew,” I say, thinking he might just be the most interesting person I’ve met in a long time.
He chuckles and goes to open his mouth when a round of raucous cheering sounds through the closed door.
“Oh my god,” I say, “It’s happened,”