Valentine's Day!

Race! Mitch connects pedal with foot and he is off! His car zips out of the office parking lot, onto the expressway, heading for the little flower shop before it is too late.

He catches the store owner closing up, and by flashing some cash and showing genuine excitement the store owner lets Mitch in to purchase a big box of chocolates and a single red rose. The chocolates are housed in a big red heart-shaped box. The rose has a cheap plastic wrapper around it. Mitch pays the store owner a fifty and tells him to keep the change.

Race! Back on the expressway, heading downtown, Mitch cranks his heater to full blast. The February air has been especially chilly this week, but cannot match the climate controlled interior. Steering with his left hand, Mitch uses his right to open the box of chocolates and place it on the edge of his passenger seat. His right hand angles the air vents to blow on the box.

"Liar, liar", thinks Mitch's brain.

"Liar, liar", whispers Mitch's lips.

The car is accelerating. The speed limit is 55 mph; Mitch is now driving 60. His left hand steers, his right hand fumbles the plastic away from the rose. The plastic catches on a thorn, but only for a moment. "I can't wait to kiss you", thinks Mitch's brain. He carefully puts the rose in his mouth and holds it with his teeth. He reaches over to the heart-shaped box and removes a candy with his thumb and pointer finger. Mitch squeezes the chocolate and feels an inner goo run down his hand. Nice!

Foot to pedal, pressure increasing: Mitch can't drive fifty-five. He feels the rose stem with his tongue, feels the alternating smooth and rough patches of its stem, feels the rising bump of the thorns. "Liar, liar, pants on fire", thinks Mitch's brain.

"Panch on firrr", mumbles Mitch's teeth.

"Tree", thinks Mitch. "No, telephone poll." Calf muscle tensing, pressure increasing: Mitch's car hums a lullaby. The expressway lights go by by by. Mitch slides his tongue across the rose stem until his tongue catches a thorn. His eyes dilate, and he presses his tongue harder against the point. "I'm going to kiss SOMEthing tonight", says Mitch's brain.

His left hand steers, his right hand unzips the front of his tan cargo pants. Eyes on the road, tongue on the thorn, Mitch exposes himself to his warm car's interior. Foot to pedal, Mitch tops 80. With his right hand, Mitch scoops up the box of chocolates and holds them to his nose. They smell pretty good. He smiles, swallows a small amount of stem and blood flavored saliva, and thrusts the box of chocolates face down into his crotch. He presses the warm, melting morsels into his loins. "I'm going to fuck SOMEthing tonight", says Mitch's brain.

"Hmmm", hums Mitch and his car, in perfect harmony.

"A telephone poll", thinks Mitch. "No! A gas station!"

And there it is, shining in front of him: a glorious tower of fuel storage! Pedal touches floor, and Mitch is racing out of control. "Liar, liar!", shouts Mitch's brain.

"Heart on fi..."!