Last night at the art museum, I met a man.

He said he spent a whole year collecting something for the woman he loves.

Wishbones. A whole jar full of them. Maybe 40 or 50, he said.

On Valentine's Day, he showed up for dinner at the restaurant, his wishbone jar under his arm. He waited and waited. She didn't show up.

He untied the ribbon to open the jar and plucked out one of the bones. He broke it in half and made his wish.

He wished for her to show up. But she never did.

When he got home, a voicemail was waiting on his machine that said she never wanted to see him again.

He still has the wishbones, he said, because you never know when you need a jar of wishes.

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