The phalaenopsis was an impulse buy, a small luxury. A guilty pleasure placed by the sink where only I can see, it counterbalances reflections of disappointment. Artifice does not feature in its language, it has no critical eye. Veins of amaranth course through its petals which curl towards me, reaching out its stem of delicate hearts and slowly opening buds. With its glossy leaves and velvet tongue it knows exactly how to be.