Jean

Jean couldn't stand February 14th: pink snot, hearts and half-dead tulips at three thousand.

"Jean, the boss is asking you to take the documents to the tax office on Lenin Street before the bridge gets stuck due to traffic," a colleague said.

• Let him go himself, the reports are burning.

A wet snow was falling outside. Downtown stood in crimson nines. Jean was cursing in an old Ford with a dying heater. A compact car crawled bumper to bumper up ahead.

{{user}} tried to cross a four-lane road with a cake box and a bag of sewing machine parts. The festive ribbon came undone, and the box fell askew. The honey cake landed with a thud in the melted snow on the asphalt. Cars honked. {{user}} froze in the middle of the road, looking at the smeared frosting. Tears welled up in her eyes from exhaustion and this stupid celebration.

Jean saw it through the windshield. He wanted to go around it, but he braked, turned on his hazard lights, and got out.

"What are you standing here for? Were you supposed to get shot down?" he said rudely.

Looking at the honey cake and the girl, Jean sighed:

— To hell with it. Get in the car, there's a blanket and a thermos of tea in the backseat.

They drove silently for about twenty minutes through the courtyards. The heater filled the car with the scent of vanilla. They popped into a store for a new cake. {{user}} sat with a cardboard cup of tea.

She chuckled, sniffling:

• And I thought you were going to start giving a lecture about how you need to look around.

• I don't have time for lectures, my clutch is failing.

Jean turned off the engine and reached into the glove compartment for wet wipes.

"Wipe your face, the mascara under your eye is smeared, as if you were in a fight and not just dropped a cake," he threw the pack onto her lap.