He came with a pack of red roses. Actually, there were 20. I counted them, standing speechless, a bit on alert about what was going to happen later on. I still hadn’t taken them from his hands when he already started chattering about how he had planned where to get them so they’d be fresh—because I deserved them, and his mother agreed.
Another couple was cuddling and laughing on the bench next to ours. I sat down, fighting the urge to run. He followed my lead and put the bouquet on my lap. His life was super miserable, and I was the only spark of light. His ex-girlfriend had left him for someone else, his mother insisted he needed to step up and find a better job—because working as a librarian was, in her view, undervalued—and his therapist told him he had depression.
I am on a difficult path in my life right now. But you are awesome, and I open my cards straight away. It’s only fair for you to know everything about me. I am honest, and I have honest intentions. All this time that we’ve been texting… I think… I think I love you.
He kept talking about how he had arranged a table for us at a nearby café. It was perfect, he said, because finally I would meet his mother. The café was close to her home, so she could easily join our date. Wasn’t it lovely? How the two loves of his life would finally meet. I’m sure you’ll love her. Sometimes she can be too much, but aren’t all mothers?
I needed to go. The flowers fell to the ground. But where? Why? Ah, yes—my kitchen oven. I had left it on. I have to go. But… Bye, thanks. Your flowers…
It was the first date. After five days of texting on a dating app.
Passersby, morning runners, cheerful dogs—all could see rose petals scattered across the canal water. He was mourning, cursing indecisive and cruel women. She just deleted the dating app.
Alexandra Konstanti 
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