The Space Between Naming and Knowing

Here’s a fun game I like to play with men:

I ask a simple question.

They answer.

I spiral.

God chuckles.

This week’s edition:

“If you were going to give me fresh-cut flowers, what would you pick?”

It’s an innocuous question. A little flirty, a little soft, the kind of question that reveals more about a man’s emotional literacy than any dating app prompt ever could.

He replies:

“Orchids.”

Sir.

I asked for flowers; you handed me an epitaph.

So I push:

“Is that because you like orchids or because you think I would like orchids?

Tell me more.”

And this man—this man who has been unable to offer me presence or partnership responds:

“They are pretty, unique, bold, and fragile and need special attention.”

And I cried in my car.

Not because I want him.

But because even men who cannot choose me, somehow manage to name me with poetic accuracy. Because even the ones who will not love me look at me and see something that deserves tending. Because sometimes the truth comes out sideways from the least trustworthy mouth in the room.

And honestly? It’s funny.

Because the last man who actually took me out brought me lilies from the grocery store—no filler, still in the crinkly plastic sleeve like he grabbed them on his way to grab milk.

Which means:

One man names me like a poem he’ll never honor.

Another hands me a bouquet like a receipt.

Somewhere between those extremes is the man who will actually know what to do with me.

What’s your version? Tell me everything.