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literary object Orchids Paper tray 
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We have always cultivated orchids in your home is now. There is nothing particular to do, than the rest of the flowers for their exquisite and exotic, explained her husband.
But you have to dedicate a lot to them ...
Because they are very delicate, like you, he argued, and kissed her tenderly.
Then she was silent, she did not bring up the matter, but went to the conservatory every time he was away to town, or at night while her husband slept, and stayed there long time watching resentfully to orchids, their capricious symmetries, the stamens and fleshy succulent petal nuances blood, clinging to the trunks of trees whose energies were seized to open arrogant enticing, sensual.
A force admire with envy he felt that something evil trapped in their cups, wet and sensual, insinuating in the folds of its petals. With the passage of time noted that the roles were reversed: they were the orchids whom she watched when the sleepless nights left the bedroom and sat on the damp stone bench, with just her pink camisole and ensuring harmonious forms , challenged the impudence of orchids. He suspected that every time I gave them back to leave them there whispering, the criticized or mocked. I saw something that increased their susceptibility carnivorous and gradually the admiration was becoming ill will and jealousy into hatred.
One night, while her husband was fast asleep, left the room like so many times, but it went first to the tool shed and there took some shears.
Despite the years of occupation, the commissioner could barely tolerate what was before their eyes on the ground at the foot of orchids sweaty and spattered with blood, lay it bare, with shears open chest, and a little further, the camisole dirty, torn.
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