His impeccable taste ended at flowers. When it came time in their courtship phase to purchase them, when impressions still trumped all else, he’d choose the most garish ones available to give to her- pink and yellow blossoms that looked almost fake to the eye, enshrouded in a cloud of baby’s breath, hijacked with stiff, dark green ferns, lime-colored cellophane and plastic ribbons. They looked like bouquets you’d buy in a subway station out of plastic pails or else have made up at a hospital gift shop, to be attached to silvery round balloons wishing someone, anyone, to get well.
He would bring these gaudy concoctions to her door, ring her bell twice, and wait for her enthused reaction, which was necessary for her to give. These were not her types of flowers, of course, the flesh hot pinks and baby’s breath did not go well in her land of tasteful neutrals and stark minimalism. Like a sore thumb, like graffiti plastered on a new surface, these bouquets of his jarred the eye and became focal; one could not look away. Where perhaps a simple orchid would have sufficed, would have been more than enough, would have spoke to her that in fact this man of supposed impeccable taste really truly knew her, knew her style and therefore possibly her deepest desires, there was instead only carnations, died unnaturally with food coloring.
