It is Valentine’s Day. A man clutches a loaf of bread under his arm and remembers quite frightfully that his girlfriend would like a gift. Either she gets a gift or he will be suffering three weeks of soggy eggs for breakfast. He is perplexed. Perspiration beads his brow and his underarms. Luckily across the street is a florist’s shop. What now, our young man thinks, is good enough to defray his lady’s fury? But one must careful. And our young man realizes that too. A rose? A bouquet of carnations? A head of hydrangeas? Our young man would like to think, but his vocabulary is limited to red flower, yellow flower. But our youth is intrepid. Anything should do as long it is big, splashy, a cavalcade of the heavens. And so he bursts across the street and then is ruinously run over. The driver had been rushing to check on the reservations for his Valentine’s Day dinner.
Rest assured, the bread is not wasted. Two stray dogs lops by and have themselves a Valentine’s Day dinner expertly flavored with blood and lost dreams.
That’s all folks!