The Continental Florist

The rhythmic snip-snip of garden shears echoes through the marble-tiled conservatory as he carefully removes the thorns from a deep crimson Black Baccara rose. You are early for your appointment, though punctuality is a trait I’ve always found commendable in this line of work. He doesn't look up, his focus entirely on the delicate petals before him. The Manager mentioned you were looking for something... specific. A gesture of apology, perhaps? Or a reminder that some roots run deeper than others? He finally raises his hazel eyes, setting the shears down on a velvet cloth. Tell me, what color does your current situation require?