I’d never been a firm believer in the three-day rule. Mostly because, if a girl gives you her phone number, she obviously wants you to call it. Secondly, because if you see the same woman on the subway to work the next day, you’re obligated to talk, but you have no appealingly masculine aspect of conquest. Thus, the night after I met Victorie, I called her. She picked up on the second ring. Unlike most girls, she didn’t make a joke about the three-day rule and my being desperate. She didn’t flirt. All she said was: “Hi, I’m planting zinnias.”

“But it’s dark outside. And it’s winter.” I didn’t know much about flowers, and I expected some sort of explanation about a kind that thrives in a city apartment.

“Sorry,” she said, “I’m watching the outdoor channel. It’s about spring flowers. Zinnias. They’re planting zinnias.”

“Oh. Cool. Have you eaten yet?”

“Emmeril doesn’t come on until 9.”

I laughed. I’d always been one for women who were comfortable joking about themselves. She didn’t laugh with me. “Well, if you’re willing to miss Emeril’s sparkling personality for one night, would you like to go out?” She paused.

“Sure. Pick me up out front at 8.30 sharp.”

She gave me her address and hung up.

At 8.13, I chose to drive my red Porsche. A 911, it was the perfect combination of expensive and flashy. In case you’re wondering, yeah, it is incredibly difficult finding parking spots for all these cars in San Francisco. I have a garage, but it only holds two. The others are scattered around three or four blocks near my house. Today, the Porsche was parked in front of a resale record shop. On the TV sitting on the counter inside, I saw the buzz of a man in yellow rubber gloves planting zinnias. Slapping down the dirt around them and watering them with a long, green hose. I decided to take Victorie to that organic restaurant on Geary Street.

The thing I wasn’t expecting was, standing out on the curb in front of her house, Victorie was dressed all in flowers. Tight floral print dress, black heels with little yellow flowers at the toes, a matching purse dancing with the yellow clumps; hair, pulled into a loose bun, topped with a real yellow zinnia from the florist down the street. Of course, she looked great. These weren’t little-girl clover-chain flowers. They were sophisticated and feminine. They were sexy, and they were everywhere. Getting in my car, she tells me, don’t go too fast. Don’t let the flower blow out of my hair. So I don’t.

At dinner, she talked about plants. Floral was her style for tonight, and she always tried to make her conversation match her outfit. After a while, she ran out of facts about zinnias, and the conversation turned to other things. What, I don’t remember exactly, but by the end of dinner I liked her immensely. She was quirky, witty, and beautiful. Her laugh was enchanting. She ordered the most expensive thing on the menu and ate it all.

By the time dessert came, I wanted things to work out. I wanted more than a one-night stand. Maybe not a steady and exclusive relationship, but some sort of a real connection. On the way home, I drove too fast and the flower blew out of her hair. Thank god she invited me up for a drink.



Before I saw the apartment, I heard it. Like dirty socks and rotten food, the noise from her house melded with the quiet of the hall so that it was muted and ever-present. It sounded like a dinner party in the room next door. Laughing, glasses clinking, furniture being moved; the wail of a baby, or maybe a murder victim. “Sorry,” she said. “I just moved and I haven’t really had a chance to unpack everything. Luckily, the wine is already out and the refrigerator is running- don’t worry, it’s not too fast. I’ll be able to catch it.” It was fine with me. I’d lived in my most recent apartment for almost a year, and I still didn’t have everything unpacked.

In the few seconds between the click that unlocked the door and the click that turned on the light, I stood in the doorway staring into at least six twinkling, crying, sparkling eyes. Blue, brown, red, green and gold, the images which flashed across them were disharmonic. One TV showed news, another the bubbling surface of a chocolate soufflé. One was a commercial for hair regrowth serum, and another a special about an arctic snow leopard. The furthest away was some sort of soap opera, a man and woman, standing at the threshold of a door. The woman’s hand reached out to flick the light and the man- the tall, handsome, but suddenly confused man in his Italian suit and deep purple tie, took one step back.

He closed his eyes. I closed my eyes. She laughed, and her real, sparkling voice blended with all of the dead laugh track voices on a rerun of That 70’s Show. I was confused. I was scared. I walked with her through the door.

In the light, the place reminded me of a high-security electronics store. The TVs were all different sizes and shapes. The surveillance camera was watching me. I felt like there should be price tags on the monitors. I wanted an overweight salesman to come accost me with facts about HD.

At the moment, I felt more “high” than I did “defined”, but she just stood there and smiled. She headed toward the kitchen, toward the fridge, to get me something to drink. It was like she thought that her house was completely, utterly normal. Which I guess it might have been, with the exception of the giant TV room. The bedroom was certainly normal, as was the kitchen and the bath. Pictures of a family lay on her dresser, and her socks were folded in the drawers. Everything was neat, and, pretty generally, normal. I watched myself watch myself watch myself watching her, wondering if she was going to tell me anything about her entertainment super-center, or more importantly, why it was there.

I asked, and she asked back, “Where else would I put it?” I laughed, and said she should charge admission to the Cineplex—the atmosphere was nicer than any other place in town. I don’t think she got what I was saying, but nonetheless she laughed along and tossed her deep red hair. I laughed some more, because of the amazing coincidence I had just seen. As she flipped her mane, a Pantene commercial woman flipped her own with perfect confidence. Victorie was far, far more beautiful.

Claire Samuels