She comes towards the table, smiling, just-brushed hair and party frock, a wicker basket of red red roses clutched closely.
By the Saints, its the roving restaurant Flower Girl and she is about to dampen the next few moments of your evening. You might be in the middle of declaring undying love or a bitter argument, a punchline of the worlds best joke, the crucial stage of an invention. But that all becomes secondary as your new reality fills with roses, roses with LEDS flashing, Roses with teddies hugging their stems, roses off the cover of a Mills and Boon book (The Pregnant and Surgically Enhanced Mistress of the Gentle Arms Dealer Billionaire From Steamy Sorrento).
She's telling you that its for charity, that the proceeds of your purchase will go towards a child or animal or hospital for dolphins. The rose will cost you R30. Her face is a thin skin mask and there is something horned, fanged, primeval and writhing beneath it. Your freshly baked bread roll that's just soaked up the grassy olive oil feels like sour asphalt in your throat. The bill, a tip, parking, petrol and now this.
Is there a happy ending? Maybe not tonight- you sent her off like a leper, bought a rose or took the in-between chicken road and gave her 5 bucks for the baby dolphins.
Restaurants take heed: you don't let insurance and medical aid companies rove your shop looking for business; defend your patrons from the girl bearing flowers.
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