Flowers, chocolate, and black eyes

Picture this scenario. Your boy is away at wherever, and conveniently remembers it’s his girlfriend’s birthday. Or maybe he’s been watching Alejandro and figured that chocolate and flowers earn brownie points. He calls you, his closest pal, and asks you to deliver said flowers. He knows he can trust you not to hit on the girl, and he knows the thanksgiving will be totally worth your grumbles.

So, being the nice guy you are, you walk into the florist and select the flowers. You have no idea what flowers are, so you spend hours looking clueless as you get hints from attendants. That done, you go off and buy chocolate, then you make your way over to the girl’s house.

The girl is completely surprised. She’s never seen you in her life, so at first, she just stares blankly. Then, once you explain you errand, she’s so overwhelmed that she jumps up and hugs you since, you know, the guy she really wants to hug is far away. It’s pretty hot outside, so she invites in for … oh … I don’t know … juice. You sit there politely and drink the juice while she gushes and giggles about the guy who sent the flowers. You empty your glass, get up and leave, perhaps getting a thank you hug at the door.

Now, here’s what you don’t know. Your girl has a nosy friend who just happens to work at the flower shop. Or was walking past the shop. Or has made it her life mission to get dirt on guys in shops. Or happens to be named Shiko Busted. So, the girl’s friend observes your behaviour and snaps a documentary, complete with time stamps of how long you stayed in the house. She then presents this evidence to your girl as Exhibit A.


Now, if this scenario played out among guys, they’d just sit for a beer and ask each other straight out.

‘I hear you sent flowers to my girl. What’s up with that?’

Or maybe the guy would ask his girl why she was tying a bow for some dude in a shop. Or he would call Agnes Shiko Busted to smoke the girl out. The story would be quickly resolved.

But noooo. When it’s girls involved, we have to be complicated. We have interrogate without interrogating. We have to make you admit guilt without actually asking about it. So your girl sets up a romantic dinner, wears a really hot dress, makes pleasant small talk and serves the first two courses.

Then out of the blue she asks:

‘Do you know anyone who lives on XYZ street?’ or

‘I need some flowers for my mother. What do you suggest?’ or

‘Do you know where I can get DFG flowers in town?’

Of course, poor dude has been numbed by good food, wine, and a virtually edible little black dress, so he has no idea what’s coming. And if he does, he’s so deer- in- the-headlights that he can’t beat it off with a stick.

The conversation will go on for another half hour before she screeches and shows you the pictures. By then you’ll have dug yourself so deep there’ll be no getting out.You’ll need the specialists at Lie Like A Guy to deliver you, because the truth will earn a crotch full of soup and a black eye.

Meanwhile, somewhere in a dark corner, a homebreaker with a camera will be stalking some other poor dude in the wrong part of town, just for holding chocolates in a flower shop.

Trust is a decision, and the truth is almost always stranger than fiction. You can choose to believe what someone says, and they can choose to take advantage of that fact, but sometimes, the dog really did eat your homework. And sometimes, like when your girl busts you giving chocolate to some stranger, it’s better to just lie.