Spike had a nagging feeling as he stood under her window. The night was dark and cool. The only heat was coming from the tip of his cigarette. The box under his arm was in sad shape - not wrapped with delicate ribbon, not held with both hands so as not disturb the contents. But it was ruined in the end anyway.
William had taken such care dressing, bathing, with his hair, with his clothes. Then he had stood in the sweet shop for an hour selecting the right morsels. The shop girl's smile had turned wooden and then disappeared. She grew sick of his fumbling and indecision. By the time he left with the box, the sun was out high above, burning down bright and hot. As he stood on the other side of the street, opposite her house, sweating through his summer suit, his courage never rising high enough for him to go up to her door, the delicate confections melted in the sun.
Spike tried to convince himself that this was different. The box not handled with care – beaten, like it carried his old self inside it. He would still give it to her so she would know he wasn't the same namby-pamby little mama's boy. He wasn't. He stood outside under the trees smoke rising around him in the night air, the cigarette burning down. The box of chocolates still not delivered.
The end