“Valentine’s Day is literally the devil.”, says the greasy haired hipster art student to the withering old woman. “It is a holiday dedicated to enforcing our socially constructed system of how relationships should work. Because I am the man, I am expected to buy my girlfriend a gift? Further enforcing the values of our capitalistic and patriarchal society? How typical!” The greasy haired hipster art student went on like this for twenty minutes. The withering old woman listened to him, her eyes  searching his mouth as it chewed his words too fast for his jaws. She was examining him to see what part was broken; she inspected the nervousness of his hands and the fidget of his left leg to see if the girl who he loved too hard was still hiding in his delightful idiosyncrasies, “Are you through, young man?”

                  “Through? How could you ever really  be through with talking about a holiday that reminds us that  our society has poisoned us into thinking that love is an economic…”

                  “Love is not anything constructed by society or economy or any nonsense like that. Love comes from a deep, warm place in the pit of you that only the right person can touch at the right time. This warm place is called your Promethean fire. Now stop all this complainin’ and show that girlfriend of yours that she is still the reason you know that fire is an important thing. Buy her a gift, and don’t be cheap about it!”   

The withering old woman picks her body up one leg at a time and leaves the table. The greasy haired hipster art student remains at the table, wondering which wrong girl he let run away with his Promethean fire.