That flower meant everything to her. It was hella delicate. And hella expensive. But more than that, it was mysteriously important, the likes of which had never been felt in importance previously, and in a manner that no one really knew, except the cooker, who felt its importance in every magnificent undulating curve of her butternut squash shaped body honed by years of foxy boxing, she thought as she looked at herself in the window's reflection, her pursed pouty lips growing ever more florid, red like the blood that came out of Marie Antoinette's neck hundreds of years ago, sour as the milk from a cow collected in the same year.
"WHERE IS MY FLOWER"!! She screamed to the gray merciless void.
Then she smelled it. She smelled it even as it was enveloped still in the truck, trundling up the driveway with brown angular fatalism. She smiled. It was here.
Her corpse flower.