Short Story Saturday

Ruprecht frantically ran through the streets of downtown Cardiff. His heart beating wildly in his ears, his sandals slapping against the rain soaked pavement. His love beads flapping against his face.
It was dawn. And it was Monday. And that meant....
finding the perfect greenery for HER lunch time salad.

She always ordered salad, and that puzzled him. "Surely, she realizes she looks spectacular" he thought to himself. He had tried, in the beginning, to tempt her with other fare. Pasta, (almost fresh.) A nice sandwich. Perhaps, his specialty, pizza, made with lobster, zuchini, and (almost) fresh cream sauce.
Once, he'd even made her a special salad, full of that garbage, Frizee, just to see if he could starve her into chosing something else. But she'd politely pushed it to the side, and ate the rest of the lettuce he'd not had the heart to leave out.

Getting to the market, he shoved aside the little old ladies and their shopping lorries, eager to see what produce was offered for the day. He examinined the raddichhio, the hearts of palm, the romaine. All appeared (almost) fresh, so he loaded them into his basket. Turning his nose up at the iceberg, he pressed on. He found some Bibb lettuce, and (joy of joys!) some Batavian lettuce as well. Going for broke, he also grabbed some butterhead. He did not want her to grow bored with the salad. She might find a new place for lunch if she did that...

After paying for his purchases, Rupe sailed back to his tiny restaurant on happy feet. He'd come to Cardiff to meet his soul mate. He had certainly never imagined he would find her, eating salad, in the restaurant he worked at. He certainly NEVER expected her to be an American, of all things.
"Bad luck she is married, though" he thought morosely. He'd seen her come in with her children a few times. The girl was well mannered and polite with her requests for crips and grilled cheese. The little one though. Had thrown lettuce at him.
Still and all, even knowing she was married, he could not tear his thoughts from her. Each day at lunch he waited for her to come in, and order her salad, in that exotic accent she had. It was what he lived for.
His friends tried to take him out, to distract him from always thinking of her. He always refused to go. Instead, he stayed home, agonizing over what she might want in her salads.
"Nice chopped egg, maybe? Broccoli? Artichoke Hearts? Mango even? He dreamt of lettuce, cucumbers, and the saucy American...
Back at the restaurant, he threw his heart and soul into the salad preparation, just knowing, in his bones, that she would gift him with her presence this day. But when his back was turned, just for a moment, (almost fresh) Kev went and mucked it all up, by tossing in some day old Frisee.
Rupe lost it, at that point. Tears streaming down his face, he rounded on (almost fresh) Kev, cheese grater in one hand, avocado in the other. (She would get her guacamole). (Almost fresh) Kev never stood a chance. They had to bury him in a closed casket. The mortician never did get all the avocado out of (not so fresh) Kev's nasal passages.
And Rupe?
Ended up in the nuthouse. Working in the kitchens. But never allowed near salad, again. Because even the sight of Frisee was enough to send back around the bend.
And his American?
No one knows for sure. Rumor has it, she is still eating salad....