which way to happy?
They offered me sunflower seeds a little apologetically, these small Japanese girls in pink kimonos. All three of them entered the room holding the big black bowl of seeds, with their feet making small shuffling noises against the polished wooden floor. Carefully, they placed the bowl in front of me, right at the center of the bamboo table and shyly exited the room.
I looked at the bowl intently, trying to conjure the flowers that might have been. I imagined the yellows and the browns and the petals and the leaves. A tear rolled down my left cheek, evaporating even before it reached my chin. I tried to follow it up with a more substantial tear but my tear duct refused, so I just compensated for it by adopting a gloomy disposition.
After a while, a song disrupted my solitude, striding carelessly into the room and standing uncomfortably near me. It leaned towards me to look unabashedly into my face. Helplessly, I started singing it, quietly at first but louder and louder as I lost myself into its presence. By the end of the song I was shouting, which caused the small Japanese girls in pink kimonos to rush into the room. I stared at them helplessly, gasping and red in the face with the effort of singing. Frowning, they approached the song, clubbed it with a 12-inch black dildo and dragged it outside the room. They smiled apologetically as they exited.
Left alone, I once again looked into the bowl of sunflower seeds and lost myself thinking of why there are seeds that become flowers and why there are flowers that are reduced into seeds.