Frankie’s makes the best daffodil steaks. I go down there Sundays and get a 16-ouncer.
“That’s murder, you know,” a guy nearby said as I finished my meal, wiping canary-colored juice from my lips.
“Hey, I’m eating here.”
“They have feelings. All flowers do. I hear them cry at night, mourning their lost brothers.”
Wordlessly I got up and paid by retinal scan, winking to add a tip.
As I drove home past fields of towering daffodils, I rolled down my window. Maybe it was the wind, but I thought I heard weeping.
I rolled the window quickly back up.