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“Have you ever given anyone a red rose?" Grant asked. I looked at him as if he was trying to force-feed me foxglove. "Moss rose? Myrtle? Pink?" he pressed. "Confession of love? Love? Pure love?" I asked, to make sure we shared the same definitions. He nodded. "No, no, and no." I picked a pale blush-colored bud and shredded the petals one at a time. "I'm more of a thistle-peony-basil kind of girl," I said. "Misanthropy-anger-hate," said Grant. "Hmm." I turned away. "You asked," I said. "It's kind of ironic, don't you think?" he asked, looking around us at the roses. They were all in bloom, and not one was yellow. "Here you are, obsessed with a romantic language- a language invented for expression between lovers- and you use it to spread animosity.” — Vanessa Diffenbaugh