He stumbled up to her door, wondering what to say, what to think, what to do. He had been at the flower shop just moments before. He bought a cactus.

“Why did I buy a cactus?” He felt the need to piece together the series of events that led to her door, with a cactus in his hand.

It was the flower salesperson. The salesperson—was it a man, or a woman? the nametag said “Q”—had assured him that the prickly points of cactus were somehow indicative of the sharp nature of his love, or something. It all seemed very poignant, romantic, suave. Now it seemed vaguely African. Maybe even tribal. He thought he could hear bongos from the next porch over.

The door opened. She stumbled, fell face-first into his desert love offering. It had gone a full inch into her face.