Very Short Stories

Wilted

They sat in silence. He glanced at the lovely roses which were now dumped in the trash bin beside them, taking a brief moment to wonder how in the world did those poor flowers manage to get themselves in there. And then he remembered that it was exactly what he was supposed to ask her.

"Why don't you like flowers? Almost all the girls I've known love them."

She shrugged, not the least bit surprised of his query. Like she's been asked the same thing over and over and that it was boring her to death. "Because they don't last. They wilt and they die before I do," she replied. 

"What's wrong with that? All things die. Beautiful ones and ugly ones. Some before us and some after us. Isn't that how it has been since the beginning?"

"You're missing the point," she grunted. "I have no problem with death itself. I just hate seeing something or someone die. And I'm tired of getting left behind by the things I learned to love."