Over the years, your body had been covered in a concerning amount of flower tattoos, each one corresponding to a scar on your soulmate's body. And they were everywhere. It was getting to the point where you wondered what exactly your soulmate did for a living. How did one person rack up so many scars? You had flowers on your arms, on your legs, on your stomach, and on your back. You had big flowers, small flowers, familiar and not.

However, the crown jewel of your tattoo collection was an enormous black baccara rose located just below your collarbone. It was about four inches in diameter, and like most black roses, was not truly black, but rather a deep maroon, appearing nearly black at the edges and ever so slightly brighter red in the center. The petals had the visual texture of velvet, and sometimes you just wanted to pluck it out of your skin and tuck the real flower behind your ear. All in all, it was beautiful.

One lovely morning, as you were walking to the local grocery store for a kitchen restock, a man walked right into you, knocking you to the ground. To be fair, he was distracted. He was talking to a woman in an orange Anorak jacket, and—

"Oi, watch where you're walking!" he said, scowling down at you. So much for giving him the benefit of the doubt. You stood up and brushed yourself off, about to give him a piece of your mind, when you noticed him staring at the rose beneath your collarbone, exposed by the low-cut blouse you'd chosen for the day.