I can't help but think that someone who would smile at plucking one so ruthlessly envies that satisfaction.

[She's gotten much bolder about talking back, hasn't she? She has to marvel about that, even if it's to herself. It must have something to do with her mood, which is like an ever-present hive under her skin.

She rests her weight on her palms.]

But a flower might also find satisfaction in knowing that it was taken at its most beautiful before it could be seen as useless and ugly.