In the flower shop we used to try to guess how we’d die.
Customers would come in, pinch our stems and poke their noses between our petals, and we’d joke: watch out for her or you’ll end up on a roundabout or beside a roadside barrier; watch out for him or you’ll rot in a vase; watch out for her or a drunk bridesmaid will drop you after you’ve flown through the air; watch our for him, that flaky scalp and flushing red nose, or you’re bound to end up on a grave, and not his dead wife’s either, his mum’s or some girl’s, a girl he always loved but never made a move on, because he would never have had a wife unless she was a mail order one.
It was all a great laugh until we were picked up, slung on the backseat of the car and taken to our grave.
Which is where we are now, petals curling, stems drying, our scent fading, as we rot into the flowers we replaced, dying flowers on another flower’s grave.
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