The flower woman sits in the street corner with her flowers of many colours lying about in heaps.The colors are not distinguishable in the night but their fragrances are. The winter evening breeze grosses them up as one entity, pleasant and gently skin-touching. The colors come from somewhere like the breeze, the smells of flowers all aggregated like the cheesy smells of the other evening, as we do not look into the eyes of others on a birthday evening. Birthday evenings of sons raise hopes and expectations,like debit cards sprung out of pockets explaining all. In the end the colors get mixed up with the smells of pizzas, their waiters bearing evening smells of flowers that are indistinguishable from Italian pasta and bread crumbs topped with vegetable pieces. Birthday cakes get put away for higher salaries. Girls come from out of the mists, future wives , for a mere Rs.20000 salary and a dark young man without a horse, girls willing to take on the role of mothers. We want a girl who will bake a cake for our future son. Future son when we are past fathers. The girl sits in the street corner like the flower woman with a dark back . Her flowers glisten in their white fragrance on a hair pleat thrown at our face in a dark challenge.