Tristan saw the whole thing. The bicycle bell jingle made him look up from trimming rose thorns to see the whooshing pink shawl, like angel wings, lift a lady then fold up for a fall into flowers. A spill of lilac, orchids, daisies and forget-me-nots followed suit.
"Are you okay?" Tristan asked, perched barely above a bent Bird of Paradise.
Annie's head hit against some heather and she batted her eyes as the flower water trickled onto most of her prone body. "Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry, I've rearranged your display!" she said. "Look at these crushed carnations!"
"Don't worry about it, we can gather them up, and if you can help me we'll call it even," Tristan said.
At that moment Annie was clutching a cosmos, and he reached under her arm to help. As her hand gripped his forearm, Annie's pinky finger fondled its forest of soft fur. Annie bit her lip, already pinker than an Easter bunny's belly, and brushed her hands down her front in order to regain dignity.
Tristan scuffled, legs bent at the knees, setting the flower-laden benches back up. (Actually it was Annie's beauty that bent him, ready to hold her hand in a request.)
The next day Annie smiled like an autumn afternoon. The glare made Tristan close his eyes and inhale. They were warmed.
The next day Tristan gathered Annie like a bouquet of anthurium and said, "You are my everything. Won't you please walk with me through the Argyle Stairs to a rosy future?"
The next month she wore white, he a dazzling grey suit, and they ascended through the thrilling Sydney sidestreets scattered with sunflowers, to the wedding chapel filled with cheers (and chrysanthemums) and on to a bounty of best wishes.
Everyone knew - next it would be baby's breath.