Ten identical bouquets

Every year on this day the same motorcycle goes past, with ten bouquets strapped to the back of it.

Same flowers, same cellophane, same size, because every shop in the district bought from the same wholesaler on the same morning at the same panicked price.

By the time they reach ten different doors they are one bouquet, ten times over.

Whatever the brand spent the month building does not travel on the back of that bike. Not the film, not the pastel campaign, not the line about being remembered. What arrives at the door is a box, a card, and a name.

So watch what the person who opens it does. They look at the flowers, then they look for the card, and then, if the flowers are good, they ask where these came from. That question is the entire commercial event of the day, and it gets answered by whatever is printed on the box, or it does not get answered at all.

Most gift businesses here are built for the person paying. The tiers, the same-day promise, the reassurance, the checkout that has to work at four in the afternoon when somebody remembers. All reasonable. That is who is holding the card.

But the person who paid has already bought. The person who opened it has bought nothing, has just been handed something they liked, and is the only one in the exchange with a reason to look you up.

A gift has two customers. The one who comes back is the one who did not pay.