The Flower Shop

They walked, hand in hand, under the elms that lined the city's streets, and fromtime to time her laughter echoed down the street for Adam was regaling her with tales of his childhood.

{Insert story here}

She had not noticed when they walked by a small florist shop, but Adam did, and pulled her inside.
"It's over here," he said, placing his hands on her hips and turning her in the direction he wanted her to go. "About three steps forward, and turn to your right."
She followed his instructions, then peered into the cooler where the fresh-cut flowers were kept. "It's that one, isn't it?" she asked softly, a knowing sweetness in her eyes.
"Yes, that's it," he said, sliding open the door and removing one of the delicate red bus from the pot. He held it lengthwise, laying flat across the palms of his hands, perfectly balanced. "Look closely at the base of the petals, where they meet the stem," he said. "See how it is such a bright, vibrant red at its core, darkening to almost black at its tip?"
She traced the flow of the colors with one hand, her fingertips lightly touching the soft petals. "Interesting. How do they get it to do that?" she asked.
"I couldn't tell you," he replied, "for while it was my grandmother who created this breed only a few years ago, its one of the few secrets of the art that she won't tell me. But the bush itself thrives remarkably well, it seems to be able to grow out of nothing. And for that reason, it should sell very well in other countries, once we have enough bushlings to take to market."
"So what is its name then?" she asked. "You told me your grandmother always names her roses after their first bloom, so what did she name this one?"
"Corruption," he said, "not that it means anything. Her names have never been what they were since before my grandfather died, but the roses are still just as beautiful."
He carefully replaced the rose back in its case, reached for her hand. "I just wanted to show you what can come out of our family. Now come along, we'll miss the show if we don't hurry along."

editor's notes:
I doubt 'bushlings' is an actual term.
i still don't like the name of this rose, though I know what it represents in my mind. I considered 'poison, deceipt...', but none of these fits perfectly, so I have to keep looking.