[ He finds the Valentine inside the paper cup he'd planned to use for his usual one coffee a week. I only have eyes for you, Valentine it says. Maybe, 20 years ago, Bruce would have felt compelled to give it to someone. Right now, however, he's only compelled to toss the thing into the garbage, along with the cup it came in. By the time he gets back to the coffee maker, selected a new cup and begin pouring his coffee, the shape of his pupils had changed.

He doesn't even realize he's reached the top of the cup and the coffee's spilling over until it burns his hand. He grimaces, but otherwise doesn't make a sound. He's just gonna...leave that mess and get himself cleaned up.

Outside of the Kwik Trip, Bruce has to stop a minute and think about what was he was going to do. His damp, still slightly warm sleeve reminds him. Right. He was going home. ]

Excuse me, [ Said to whoever might be standing nearby ] Where's the apartment building? [ It's something he feels like he should know, but he's not able to focus enough to recall it. ]

Here.

[ There's no preamble. No pleasantries. There's just an old man holding out a silk rose for the person close by. Take it. ]

Or bring your own prompt. Hit me up on tapsters if you want to plot.