Offending God

In Babylon, there is a kind of chocolate. They say that if you give it to someone you like and they eat it, they will fall in love with you at once.

So you secretly bought a box.

You put one beside his tea.

You put one beside his coffee.

You set one in front of his computer.

You put one on the hood of his car.

You tucked one into his coat.

You slipped one into his wallet.

You wait, hoping that one day he will find them and pop one into his mouth.

Even just one.

And so, full of hope, you do it again and again each day, never tiring of it.

You check beside his tea.

Beside his coffee.

In front of his computer.

On the hood of his car.

Inside his coat.

In his wallet.

Until you notice.

The condensed milk beside his tea is gone.

The sugar cubes beside his coffee are gone.

The magazines in front of his computer have piled up.

The records on the hood of his car have piled up.

The cigarettes in his coat have been replaced.

The photo in his wallet has been replaced.

But the chocolate is still there.

At last, you understand. He simply doesn't like chocolate.

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