Another birthday, another milestone spent celebrating alone. But rather than wallow in solitude, Eunice decided to console herself with a bouquet of daisies, her favorite.
The flower shop wasn’t crowded so he stuck out like a sore thumb: short, pale, passably handsome. Eunice wasn’t very choosy.
He had picked out a “Someone Special” bouquet. No matter. A well-timed stumble sent both glass vases crashing to the ground.
He apologized profusely then made a move. Out of guilt or genuine interest, Eunice didn’t care.
She smiled as she scribbled down her number on a scrap of paper.
Desperate times, desperate measures.
The Weekday One Hundred 