"Roses, roses" says the man with an armful of blossoms, walking up and down the bar. It may be just about the only word of English he knows.
There's a whole group of them, maybe from an extended family, I see them often talking to each other in a language I don't understand. Sort of modern Eliza Doolittles, selling flowers to the relatively more well off, helping guys pick up girls.
(Somewhere at home I have tucked away a dried an withered rose that a beautiful redheaded girl bought for me from one of these guys, in this very bar years ago, something I could never just throw any, would have to toss into a sacred fire to get rid of.)
"Roses, roses" he says, walks up the bar, back. "Roses, roses." No buyers on this Sunday night, nobody trying to find a new love, so he walks back out into the cold November night, to the next bar I suppose. Sure to be a slow night for him, I think; a slow night to the bartenders and musicians working for tips too, probably. I resolve to tip before I leave.