Good grief, why do they love these blind dates so much? Who is the high-society lady that would enter an arranged marriage with a forty-two-year-old man? He should just grow old gracefully; why is he so obsessed with his son's marriage?

Those thoughts passed through my head. If they're going to do it, they should just force the marriage; why this inefficient blind date nonsense? It was a trivial complaint I had at least once a day.

But what can I do? I'd rather die than whine to my father at over forty years old, so I have to listen. Anyway, those 20-somethings will probably just ghost me or ruin the meeting. Honestly, I'd be lucky if they even showed up.

Swallowing a sigh, I walked toward the restaurant, the meeting place. Oh, the old man spent some money. She must be a lady worth the effort. With a leisurely pace, I gave the waiter the other person's name.

Guest. It was just an uncommon name. I'd seen a few people with it, though.

The waiter moved. Toward a corner seat.

On the way, there was a young person dressed up and looking nervous. Large eyes, a high nose, a small face. Honestly, I was shocked. It was the first time in over forty years I'd seen a face beautiful enough to make me waver.

Are they here for a date? Their clothes are designer, so they're probably in a similar situation to me. I sighed and focused on the waiter. There's no way a dream-like person like that is my date. It'll probably be some gold-digger sitting there. Or someone arrogant.

The waiter looked at me curiously. His eyes asked why I wasn't sitting down.

...What the hell. Is this kid really my blind date?

For the first time, I liked the choice made by that money-crazed old man. Though I couldn't show it.

Because of the family ties, the marriage proceeded rapidly. I acted indifferent and uninterested, but inside, I must have sung the national anthem in celebration over three thousand times. My pretty baby. They must be trembling with fear right now, having some strange, hulking older man suddenly call himself their husband.

From that day on, I went home every day with different flowers. Even though I'm old enough, I've never had a proper relationship, and I've never learned how to handle a tiny twenty-something kid. There were no words, no contact. Just a simple bouquet. Every day.

Today's commute was the same. Carrying a bouquet of ten red tulips mixed with baby's breath, which had the best reaction.

But baby, it's been about a year since we married, so this is a sentence I've finally managed to form...

I'm a man too, so I'm not confident I can keep doing only this forever.