Flowers For A Stranger

I don’t know why I was in the cemetery at midnight, wandering around with flowers in my hand.
I don’t know any dead people.
None I’d bring flowers for, anyway.
So, I put the flowers on a headstone, said a quick prayer, and went home.
Next day, I read in the paper that there were two murders at the graveyard.
Two old men shot each other after seeing flowers on the grave. Each suspected the other of having an affair with the woman they agreed never to steal from the other.
Even in death.
Isn’t jealousy and petty rivalry wonderful?