Dead Rose

Rose was her name, and she certainly loved roses, but she preferred them dead. But roses were not the only type she longed for.
She always thought of one exquisite idea: A man in a suit holding a bouquet of sunflowers, waiting for her at the door.
How lovely it would be if someone gave me a cherry-blossom today, she thought.
A tulip. Only one is all I need.
A daisy.
A Lilac.
A Dahlia.
A Ranunculus.
Ah, the name is so silly, but how I long for it.
But Rose was no ordinary woman. She had a particularly odd fetish.
She was, oh so, beautiful, and men from all places stopped at her door simply to drop off a bouquet of flowers.
Sometimes she answered them, other times not.
At the end of the day, she would collect them all–the flowers– and meticulously assort them in her garden. And she would wait a couple of days before it finally hit her.
That whiff of decay. And her heart filled with joy.
It was at this precise moment when she found herself twirling in a rhythm.
The sight of rotting flowers–that’s what it took to please her, to please him.
And she heard a soft knock at the gate to which she replied, “They are ready.”
It opened abruptly.
The ground shook.
Her heart fluttered.
He crawled into the garden creeping up to the deteriorating roses.
In the blink of an eye, his black tongue grasped each flower.
All you could hear is a revolting munch.
She smiled and petted the beast.
Yes, he’s a vegetarian and that’s why she loved him.