He announced to my entire book club that I only liked books with strong male leads because I secretly wanted one in my life, and he did it right in my own living room.
The pronouncement was the grand finale to a months-long campaign of unsolicited flowers, armchair psychoanalysis, and creepy late-night texts.
This man had walked into my sanctuary, my monthly gathering of friends and wine, and decided he was its curator. He saw me not as a person, but as a project to be cultivated, a fragile flower for his personal garden of souls.
What this self-proclaimed literary genius failed to understand was that a woman who loves a good story knows exactly how to write a devastating final chapter, and his was going to be a masterpiece of public humiliation.
An Unwelcome Offering: A Single, Unsettling Marigold
The doorbell chimed, a cheerful sound that grated against the nervous thrumming in my chest. I smoothed down the front of my jeans and pulled the door open, a practiced hostess smile already in place. It was the third Tuesday of the month, which meant wine, cheese, and a spirited debate about literary merits. It was my sanctuary.
Standing on my porch was Adrian. He was new, invited by my friend Sarah a couple of months ago after his relocation for a university job. He wasn’t holding a bottle of wine or a bag of artisanal chips like a normal person. He was holding a single marigold, its garish orange head bobbing in the evening breeze.
“For the lovely host,” he said, his voice a soft, almost reverent baritone. He extended the flower to me.
I took it, the stem weirdly warm in my hand. “Oh. Adrian, thank you, but you really didn’t have to.” My smile felt brittle. It was a sweet gesture. So why did my stomach feel like it was hosting a colony of agitated bats?
“Nonsense,” he said, stepping inside and inhaling deeply. “Your home always smells of beeswax and potential. It’s intoxicating.” He looked directly at me, his gaze lingering a fraction of a second too long. I glanced at the flower, then at him, and mumbled something about finding a vase, using the task as an excuse to put a much-needed counter between us.
The Critical Alignment
“I just have to say, Clara, your choice this month was sublime,” Adrian announced later, his voice cutting through the lively chatter about the protagonist’s questionable morals in *The Salt-Stained Ledger*. Everyone turned to him. He was seated in the armchair directly across from my spot on the sofa, a position he’d claimed at each of his three meetings here.
“*Sublime*,” he repeated, swirling his Pinot Noir. “The way the author wove the maritime metaphors into the protagonist’s existential dread… it was a masterclass.” He wasn’t looking at the group; he was looking at me. “Our tastes align perfectly. It’s rare to find someone who appreciates nuance on this level.”
A prickle of heat crawled up my neck. Sarah shot me a quick, unreadable look. Ben, a high school English teacher who could find nuance in a grocery list, just raised an eyebrow. I gave a tight, noncommittal smile. “I’m glad you enjoyed it, Adrian. I thought the ending felt a little rushed, personally.”
“Only because you’re a discerning reader,” he countered instantly, as if I’d handed him a gift. “You see the flaws others miss. That’s what I admire.”
The conversation moved on, but his words hung in the air, a sticky, cloying film. He wasn’t just agreeing with me; he was annexing my opinion, reframing it as a shared, exclusive experience. I took a large gulp of wine and tried to focus on Chloe’s theory about the missing first mate, but I could still feel his eyes on me, appraising, aligning.
About the Author
