Her name is Abby Waters and she is not your average-looking woman—she is a goddess. She is a beauty who takes my breath away—every morning when she walks by the construction site. It has only been the third time I've seen her, but, wow, three time's a charm!

I'm Joe Rock, and I've never had a phobia about talking with women. Heck, I've had my share of dates, with women I've met passing by my construction sites. Things are different, though, with Abby. Just the sight of her makes me tongue-tied.

Still, I want to date her, but not for the reasons that you might think.

Sure, the buddies I have a beer with, after working a shift of city construction, will fill their minds with impure thoughts, if Abby ever looks their way. I never think like that, though. To me, Abby is too "something else," to envision in an inappropriate manner.

Petite, Abby is a model type: hourglass figure, flowing, cascading hair, high cheekbones, Bette-Davis eyes, refined, luscious lips. It will surprise me if I learn that she's not a model featured on more than one magazine cover at a time.

It isn't that I'm intimidated by Abby's beauty, heck, it's what first caught my eye. But something about her makes me want to marry her, and cuddle with her in bed. I gather both she and I will be happiest at first after marriage, just lying naked next to each other in bed, as we silently communicate with our eyes. I never figured that was what I'd want to do with my wife in the bedroom. Then again, I've never encountered someone like Abby. Love at first sight—wow!

I wouldn't tell this story to my construction friends. They'd laugh me off the jobsite. Then again, maybe Abby crossing all of our paths has stirred only pure thoughts about her in their hearts, too.

Whatever the case, I seem to have the most eyes for Abby. I guess that's why I recall something my father had told me that had worked for him—with having gotten his first date with my mother.

Thinking about my father asking out my mother is difficult for me to imagine. He's just dad to me. I never thought of him as a "Don Juan."  Then again, knowing that mom and dad had dated?... Wonderful! That's why I think it's such a beautiful thing for him to have told me—where asking a girl out is concerned—his rule of thumb: You'll never know, if you don't ask.

So, when it comes to Abby, I do ask her out—and she says yes to a date with me in three days.

This is perfect! Three days away, and three small, yet, very important words on the tip of my tongue—begging to escape—to say to her. Such words can prod a relationship to the next plateau! Thing is, can I say "I love you" to Abby?...

https://youtu.be/bb4FMn-IWEY

I purchase a single rose from the florist and cut it in half with a pair of safety scissors that the he hands me. 

"This is the first package I'm going to give her," I say, happily.

The florist smiles, wordless, as he watches me place only the rose into a white box that I had brought with me.  To my surprise, he then pulls a red ribbon strip from a wall-hung roll behind himself, cuts the ribbon free, and ties it around my "rose box" with a fancy flourish, and says, "Good choice!"

I force a grin. I have a suspicion that the florist says that to "all" of his customers. Still, I have to tell you, it's nice to hear—considering how nervous I am about what Abby will think about my gifts and my explanation of them.

"Thanks," I offer, genuinely, then go onto explain, "This 'white' box is meant to symbolize 'without attachment'—a colorless life, that is, a person without a significant other."

"That's beautiful!" exclaims the florist. "This is a very unique love call, young man.  You seem to understand it quite well, though. Are you sure that you haven't presented a young lady with something like this before?"

"Yes," I say, emphatically.  Then think.  "I mean...'no,' I haven't."

"My mistake," apologizes the florist, grinning, facetiously. "Guess I have you mixed up with...someone else?" Then he hands me two small envelopes and similar-sized pieces of blank, square paper. He eyes me with scrutiny. "Have you cut your hair?"

Something about the florist's question and facial expression doesn't jibe with me. Hmm.  I'm glad, though, that he's trying to keep my confidence up—even if he thinks what I'm doing makes no sense to him...or, does it?

I take a pen from my shirt pocket and write on the first paper, while reading aloud: "One is such a lonely number, Abby. I love you." 

"Pure poetry," voices the florist, eyeing my note.

I nod in agreement.  Then I place the note into the envelope, tear a piece of scotch tape from its counter-top holder, and secure the envelope to the white box with it.

"But that's not all."

"Really?" the florist asks, with a friendly raised brow. "I never would have guessed."

My face brightens. "The cut stem goes in here," I say, placing it into the butterfly- and ladybug-decorated box that I had with me when I had entered the shop. "So, the 'cut stem' and its 'detached rose' symbolize us—Abby and me—before our first date," I explain. "The 'decorative' box here, then, symbolizes our 'two separate lives today,' joining together in the 'color of life, as a couple.' Understand?"

"A perfect first-date!" declares the florist, through an expression that I take as his uncertainty, about everything that I've said, so far. My confidence does not wane, though.

I turn my attention to the second piece of paper, jotting down on it as I read my words aloud: "Together at last." Then I place the note into its small envelope, tear a piece of scotch tape for it, as I say to the florist, "She gets this fanciful package second."

"Of course," says the florist, winking, as he watches me stick the envelope to the box. "Why would you have it any other way? Good luck, son." He pats me on the shoulder. "I'll keep you both in my thoughts."

I can't sit still on the train ride into the city. When the train pulls into my construction-site stop, I hurry off it, and onto the platform—my mind in a fog thinking about Abby. 

"Oh, no," I grumble, feeling my hands are light. I turn quickly, looking at the train, as it pulls away.  I had exited holding only the white box; I'd left the decorative one on the seat!  What's the matter with me? 

I glance at my watch; I still have time to make our perfect date perfect...I think. So, I scurry after the train. I need that second box. 

"Wait! Wait!"  

Just when I sense the train's going to stop, I race by Abby.

Geez! I mentally pause, as my momentum keeps me running down the platform. How am I going to explain this? I can't give her only one box. Her—our—perfect gift is in two boxes!

The train continues exiting the station.

Through a sea of side-stepping subway travelers on the platform, I glance back at Abby—whom my bouncing eyes notice is looking my way.

Yikes! Do I continue chasing the train, or, go to Abby with arms wide open, holding the white box that has the rose inside of it for her?...

https://youtu.be/7AWVu80q2Io

I choose the latter and, to my surprise—as we step closer to one another—I see that Abby's holding an identical plain-white box with a ribbon, "and," a ribbon-tied, butterfly- and ladybug-decorated box.  Does one of her boxes hold a cut rose, and the other its stem, like mine do?...

Our eyes meet, we speak with unspoken words. I recall the florist's comments, the twinkle in his eyes, the wisdom that I had seen without seeing—on his face at the time—and quickly reflect on those things now.  Could Abby have gone to that flower shop, too?...

I feel my heart growing with love for Abby; I sense her heart doing the same for me. Like minds thought in the same "box and flower" groove, I conclude—sight unseen—sensing the thoughts of the florist, that he'd said he would hold for both me and Abby.

Standing close enough to kiss, Abby and I, instead, fall into each other's arms. I now know that she loves me, and that she wanted to be creative about how to tell me so today, too—because of the two boxes in her hands. I just know it. What can be the start of a more perfect first date than this?