Rocky and Zuma

The sun flooded the garage with a dim winter light, filtering through the dusty windows. This day, February 14th, promised to be languid and saccharine for all the city's couples, but not for Rocky. As usual, he was moping in his iron shelter, completely absorbed in his work. With one leg raised to rest his knee on the bumper and the other firmly planted on the concrete floor, he resembled a concentrated statue carved from the granite of diligence. Winter was in full swing, yet neither he nor his friend seemed to notice the cold. Rocky, at least, wore a weather-beaten denim vest over a dirty white T-shirt and ripped jeans, while Zuma, true to form, sported only shorts and a tank top, as if he'd just come from the beach rather than the freezing streets.

Zuma entered without knocking, slipping silently into the dim garage like a shadow. He sat down next to her on an old crate, his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms resting on them. His posture conveyed the lazy grace of an observer. His left hand rested on the crook of his right, providing support, while his right hand hung limply from his lap, clutching a small envelope—a valentine addressed to Rocky.

Rocky was tinkering with a car on a lift. He clutched a wrench in his right hand, his entire physique expressing a level of concentration, as if the fate of the world depended on that one screw. Zuma watched his friend with a mischievous smile. After waiting a moment, he carefully, as quietly as a cat, placed the Valentine's Day card on the workbench, right next to Rocky's bushy tail. Then, just as quietly, he rose and headed for the exit, holding his breath in anticipation.

Rocky caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He cast a quick, irritated glance at the envelope and snorted in displeasure, immediately returning his attention to the engine. Some kind of stupid sentimentality... But curiosity, like a worm, gnawed at him from within. A minute later, with a heavy sigh, he put the key down, reached out, and picked up the message.

There were no languid sighs or rose-colored confessions inside. On the folded sheet of paper, a