A Bouquet of Zachigolds

It feels like everyone is staring at me. God, I don’t look weird, do I? I showered and put some gel in my hair and everything for tonight. Was it too much gel? Does my hair look greasy? Jesus, maybe I should have ducked into the barber I saw down the street earlier.

Shit. It is too late now.

I am never usually in the city centre on a Friday night. Even though heaps of people are still working from home, there sure are a lot of masked faces walking the footpath after their day in the office. The masks… this could be a problem. How do I know which one is her? Online dating runs its risks, and I have been wondering if I am being catfished, but how the hell am I supposed to recognise her anyway with the blue masks covering half of everyone’s faces?

I check my phone again. No new messages.

Did she forget? God, that sucks. I know this isn’t love, but man, it still feels like some early onset heartbreak at the thought. Well, it could be love… but this is only the first proper date. Who knows? Oh no, I am feeling the pressure now. Is she expecting me to be ‘The One’, an amazing perfect guy she is ready to commit to dating after testing the waters online? Shit. I am a disappointment to her already.

I am a nervous wreck. On my way from the train station here I passed a few shops: Hague’s Chocolate, Starbucks, Hungry Jacks, Angus and Coote Jewellers, and Elizabeth St Florist. At least I know enough not to get her jewellery on the first date; that’s speed-running driving any potential relationship into the ground. Creepy, much? I considered the chocolate, but what if she wanted dessert at the restaurant instead? I could have gone to Starbucks to get her a coffee, but what if she doesn’t drink coffee? What if she prefers three sugars instead of two? What if she doesn’t want coffee at all and is just dying for a glass of wine? Jesus, why is this so hard?

I stare at the bunch of marigold flowers wrapped in decorative paper in my hand. Marigolds? Are they romantic? I have no idea. There were stacks of them outside the florist on sale. Looking down the street, I can still see the bloom of orange on the sidewalk down there. Oh no. It is too obvious. Shit. What have I done?! If she walks this way, she will see the marigolds on sale and know exactly how much I paid for them, and that I didn’t order any flowers special for the occasion; the gift will look like a hasty afterthought! It was an afterthought, but I don't want her to know that. Shit. Shit. Shit.

With any luck, she will approach our meeting spot from the other street… who am I kidding, I have zero luck. God, what if she is already here and can see me spinning around holding these flowers, a mask sitting crookedly on my nose, looking like a dickhead? Oh no. Please, no.

I check my phone again, no new messages.

At what point do I give up? She is only eight minutes late but…

My palms are feeling sweaty. The paper wrapped around the stems of the flowers feels hot in my hands. Is that bad? Will the heat make the flowers wilt? I have no idea. I am regretting the flowers already; now she will be stuck carrying them around with her all night, and awkwardly have to sit them on the table or something while we have dinner.

Oh no.

If I am quick, maybe I can just shove them into a bin around here somewhere. But if I throw them in the bin, then what do I give her? This is our first time meeting in person after three months talking online through Covid lockdown, so I need to have something!

“Zach?”

That’s my name, which means that must be her voice. I look around at the masks faces, none look like they are focused on me.

“Behind you!”

I turn around and there she is. The mask can’t cover her smile that crinkles her eyes and lifts her cheeks. Her black hair is tied up into a ponytail (is that what it’s called?) and her glasses are fogging from her mask redirecting her breath. Her white buttoned shirt is tight and bunching at her waist as she twists to fix her purse hanging over her shoulder.

“Sorry I am late! I ducked into Starbucks to get you a coffee, and it took longer than I thought. Do you like cappuccinos?”

She hands me a cup, which I take, staring at my name misspelled on the side: Zack. I stare at the coffee blankly for a moment. I don’t like coffee. After a few seconds, I look back up at her and a confused look on her face makes my heart leap with fear. Oh no. I haven’t even said anything yet.

“Oh! Oh, hi. Thanks for the coffee. It is nice to see you.”

“I know. After all this time, we are finally meeting. You made me worried for a second! I thought I must have had the wrong person.” She laughs, and the sound helps soothe my nerves. “You saw the flowers down the street, too?”

God, why? Why couldn’t I have gotten her something else?

“Yes, these are for you, actually.”

She touches my arm as she takes the flowers, holding them up to her face. Her eyes dart around before she slips the mask down and she closes her eyes, inhaling the scent of the marigolds. She looks even more beautiful than her profile picture, and the expression of pure bliss on her delicate face takes my breath away.

“They are so pretty, thank you. I saw the florist, and it tempted me to go in, but I was in such a rush and I went into the coffee shop instead… thank you.” She smiles sweetly at me, an intimate smile meant just for my eyes, before she brings her mask up over her nose again. “Have I told you I always have a vase of flowers in my room?”

I take a sip of the dreadful coffee, hiding my disgust at the bitter flavour behind my mask. “No. You have told me all about your indoor plants - Potty, Potitha, Mr. Frond - do you name your flowers too?”

She laughs and her eyes sparkle as the streetlamps beam to life. “No, I don’t! But let’s start tonight by giving these a name together.”

The pressure is on. This is my big moment. The flowers were a hit, and now I need to impress her with my quick wits and charm. A cute name, a sweet name, something corny to make her laugh, but not too corny to make her think I am lame… I can’t think of anything.

“Zachigolds,” she says, holding the bouquet high.

“Hahaha Zachigolds? That’s the best you can think of?”

“Don’t doubt - it is the perfect name. I mean, come on. There is a reason you got me these flowers.” She tilts her head at me with a knowing look in her eyes. “My name is Marie, so you got me marigolds. So now I repay the favour, and I dub thee Zachigolds.”

Her name is Marie, and I got her marigold flowers. It is perfect. It is genius. It is the best introduction on a first date that has ever happened… and I didn’t even think of it. By pure coincidence, I got her those flowers. For once, I seemed to have done something right. Accidentally, of course, but it still counts.

I hate the coffee, but I feel so happy with her right now, enjoying her chatter and thankful she liked the flowers that I don’t mind drinking it. On our second date, I will tell her I prefer tea.

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