A man is sat having a coffee with his wife when suddenly he reaches forward in time and pulls a flower from her hair.
“What’s this? He’s giving you flowers? He knows we are married, right? Is he trying to be obvious? Are you? You must have known I’d find out about this one sooner or later.”
The anger in his face shakes her, punching through her defenses.
“I, I, I’ve never seen that before.”
“No, but you will. You fucking will.”
The woman relaxes slightly, understanding, and presses her cup to her lips. Something changes her mind and she lowers it slightly.
“You’re playing with Time again, aren’t you? That flower is from the future.”
A dozen counselling sessions, past, present and future, now blocks his way and the man, having lost the catalyst of an answer and the fuel of an argument, becames even angrier as he attempts to stoke the embers of his suspicion.
“Where I got it from isn’t the question. Where you will get it from, is.”
It seems lame, this turnaround, and he knows it. All of the flowers, the unanswered telephone calls, the bruises on her naked body, all of these clues from the future tease him but his wife never relents. Not once has she ever been shocked into confirming or denying his accusation.
The man lowers his head, hoping, perhaps, to find a man lying beneath it with a flower in his hand.
He finds only more evidence of the unreliability of the future.
“Let’s go.” he says, eventually.
The woman, his wife once more, places her coffee cup on the table; a rippling black period at the end of their conversation. She smiles.
“Yes, I’d like to go by the library on the way home.”
Later, waiting outside and reflecting upon his outburst, the man notices a flower seller. I’ll make it up to her, he thinks, reaching back for his wallet.