The World turns.
Two people stood on a street corner. Her, in pink plume, matching hat we presume. Him, be-suited betwixt shop entrance and cold crevice of road formed abyss.
‘My darling, my dear, you simply must hear. I shall not take you back. You’re old hat, like the tat sold in that!‘ She pointed perfunctorily at shaded shop shade.
Crestfallen, befallen, his hopes dashed again. The woman of his dreams. Stolen. Betrayed. By a man half his age – a pocketful of shiny new tricks.
‘Hubris!’ He cried, as that was no bromide. And spent the night fixing on chicks.