The door creaked open. The bald florist on the other side offered K the same expression he offers him every year on the thirtieth of December – looking somewhat like a vet explaining to a crying child the fate of her shar-pei.

“Happy anniversary, K,” said the florist, presenting the same maudlin bouquet of half-dead flowers he presents every thirtieth of December.

“Thanks,” replied K heavily, reaching one arm through the gap in the door. “No card, I suppose?”

The florist shook his head. “I’m afraid not.” He looked at K with no expression: “Why do you keep putting yourself through this?”

K propped the rotting flowers on his hip. “I don’t know. I keep hoping that maybe this year it will be her knocking instead of” – he paused – “well, you. Not that I don’t like you.”

“It won’t, K. It’s been five years. She’s not coming back. At least she remembers your wedding day,  I guess.” The florist shrugged and took his leave.

K closed the door and set the dying flowers – her favorites – on the kitchen table.

He then marked in his calendar exactly 51 weeks into the future, when he would place his next order with the bald florist.