In the middle of the day he was bolting down the side walk like he was running of sunshine, a handful of flowers at his side. Zig zaging through crowds, he clearly had someplace to be and no time to get there. His face full of worry, the inside of his lip raw, blood pooling. At the green traffic lights he glanced at his watch, shifted from one foot to the other and gave his life over to the people behind the wheel as he crossed in front of the on coming traffic.

He turned down a road, his feet stoped and his breath deepened, then he was off again to number 24. He jumped the gate, paced to the door, about to knock and he noticed the pile of ash and cigarette butts on the floor.

She had waited and worried, and waited, some more but just not long enough.

In anger the flowers hit the wall, smashing the heads off, joining the dirt on the floor.

He was too late and he couldn't blame anyone but the florist in that shop. Sadness changed to anger as he headed back to Bloom.