She sat on the floor of the little shop, hands gnarled and twisted and aching, surrounded by smiling bouquets. Her eyes nodded and let the flowers stand to attention, seeping their perfume into her skin and clothes.

A curious rose broke out of an arrangment and curled over to where she lay sleeping. Winding it's stem around her arm, it began to stroke her neck with it's velvet head.

"Are you happy?" it whispered into her ear. It could see the little parts of her that she put into every bouquet she made, an eyelash, a fingerprint, a tone of voice. The rose could also see that no one had ever brought her flowers and laughed pretentiously, albeit nervously, at this irony.

It wound itself around her neck and chest now, angrily, bitter, passionately (roses cannot do anything without passion, you see) until it had entwined itself into her skin like a trashy tattoo.