The next key frame of the same shot as image 1, in exactly the same drawing style, with exactly the same camera, framing, lamppost, window, awning, café table, chairs and coffee cup. A moment later: a small, dense, black storm cloud, about the size of a pillow, now hangs low right above the woman's head, the only cloud in the picture; the warm sunlight has dimmed to a cold grey and the blue sky in the corner has turned grey. A jagged bright white lightning bolt from that cloud strikes the rose in the man's outstretched hand: of the rose only a charred black stem with a burnt black bud is left, a thin curl of grey smoke rising from it. The man stands in exactly the same pose, still holding out the burnt stem, his copper hair now standing straight up, frizzled and smoking, a smudge of soot on his cheek and nose, but his face calm and dignified, one eyebrow raised. The woman has not moved at all: same pose, legs crossed, arms crossed, face turned away, eyes closed, offended pout. Exactly one cloud and one lightning bolt. Each has exactly two arms and two hands. No text, no letters.
