Monique visited the Indian cultural festival alone. Phil wouldn’t go to it, or any festival. Inside the auditorium, she met Anup, who was selling flowers.
“These aren’t just any flowers,” explained Anup. “They’re magical!”
“How so?” smirked Monique. Magic? Right!
“They make the person they’re for, happy.”
“Uh huh,” sighed Monique. I would be nice if only it were true. “These marigolds are pretty. I’ll buy them for me.”
Back at home, her boyfriend Phil whined. “I had to make my own sandwich! And all you got was flowers? Worthless! How about beers. Must I think of everything?”
The flowers suddenly whirled and blasted pollen into Phil’s face. He fell over, deep in a coma.
“How do these flowers make me happy?” moaned Monique, dialing 911.
Glenn the EMT was tall, tanned, and good-looking.
“It was the flowers!” explained Monique.
“I just bought flowers for myself too,” noted Glenn. “Nobody would go to the festival with me.”
Monique stared. “Are you gay?”
“I’m not. Why?”
“Just wondering,” she blushed. “Guess these flowers are magical!”
Written for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers: https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/2017/09/11/fffaw-challenge-week-of-september-12-2017/