She walks by, trailing perfume and pheromones. His reaction, which she does not deign to notice, is entirely satisfactory. His jaw hits the floor, his eyes bulge, and then burst out of their sockets as his pupils turn to little red hearts, his pink tongue unrolls and hangs with a thwap, his heart thuds so loud and hard, it seems to almost escape his rib cage, he levitates a few feet off the ground... and then, only then, comes the low, long whistle of ardent appreciation. She doesn't even turn around.

Life. What is it really? Is it a challenge? An opportunity? A risk, maybe? From the moment a foetus is conceived, a baby is born, goes through its childhood, and teenage years, and finally becomes a complete personality; does it all go according to a plan? And if so, is life a plan? Is it a script that's already written by an unseen force, whatever you may like to call it? Or is it up to that individual to – work on the plot, add a bit of drama, a bit of sanity, even come up with that final ending – basically write out this script?