The pleasure was all mine
When I lived in residence at UBC, there were frequent dances. In those days, we girls had to wait for boys to invite us to formal dances.
There was this boy who lived on the men's side of our residence. I knew him from French class. He was not a very skilled language learner; in fact, his terrible pronunciation made our urbane Parisian teacher cringe.
He was more enterprising when it came to attendance at dances. I was thrilled when he invited me. Taking a deep sniff of that carnation before carefully placing it in the rez fridge to keep it fresh for the dance, I was surprised that it smelled like cinnamon.
I was worthy of a corsage. At the time, I had no idea of the complex layers of religious and royal symbolism represented by these flowers. I just wanted to dress up and go to the dance with a boy in a sports jacket and a boutonniere.
It was also a good chance to wear my plain white dress, which dropped in pleats from a cowl collar. The pink carnation set it off beautifully.
I don't remember the dance, but when it was over, my date walked back with me to the women's rez. I adored dancing, and at the door I thanked him for a lovely evening.
Bowing from the waist, he said with a carefully manufactured formality, "The pleasure was all mine." As soon as the door closed behind me, I leaned on it and laughed. So old-fashioned!
Still, the following weekend, I was miffed when I heard through the gossip mill that he'd repeated the exact same phrase to a rez friend from another floor, after taking her to a dance.