Rollo Malone, perched on a roof, silhouettes himself against the sky. The fading lilt of the evening light flattens the slope and the curve of his back (against the blue in a a pleasing way). He is waiting atop the shed, you see, for to be late for his lady friend (this is how in his thoughts he names her). Upon the auspicious tick of five-thirty, he dismounds (fully intending to mount again later), and leaps the garden fence.
A tingling, malingering ball of charisma, he saunters down the airy street, and nary a car passes smokily by. This quietly pleases him of a late summer's evening. (and a devious twinkle alights in his eye). Though his chest is broad and his waist is slim, he laks a a gift to give to his lady. (He passes beside the railway station, where weary commuters come home to roost. (and briefcases rut like pigs in a sty.)) His friend who's a lady requires a tribute; a flower, perhaps, or a golden band? But he lacks even a spa-shop box of chocolates, and she'll slam the door in his face for sure. Always he embarks on his visits unplanned. As he descends to the sodium-lit Main Street, a floral tribute snags his gaze. A bouquet on a streetlight, tied on with string. A gift to the elderly dead (of a car crash) - Mrs Briggs of Clanfield, Berks, 93 (or so the card with it proclaimed her to be). Rollo considers it a pitiful thing.
He removes it with scissors, the card is discarded - over the shoulder like salt from a gypsy. The flowers placed gently under the left arm. . On wards and onwards to the house of his lover he walks with a posy three days old and dry. Though his lady might spurn him, he'll walk on regardless. And stroll on with gift and his head held high.