The Rose Seller

The slight sting of alcohol slides down my throat as I polish off the last of my beer outside on a chilly night with a friend. The bar is crowded tonight. It seems to be couples night and we missed the memo. I look up from my stout only to see a crooked grin holding a bouquet of roses coming straight for us. The friend I happen to be with is a female and I have become the new target of this botanist barreling towards us. These "rose sellers" are relentless when you are at any location with someone of the opposite sex. You could be with your own mother and they would try to sell you one of their wilted roses that has met such a fate from being held in their warm grip for far too long. As our salesman finally makes it to our table with his bouquet is already stuffed in my face. His facial expression matches that of a high schooler picking up his first date. "No grazie," I say with a wave of my hand to try to get him to move on to the next table. The wave of my hand is returned with a look saying something to the extent of "But, why won't you buy this lovely lady a flower?" The feeling of guilt overwhelms me, or maybe it was pity. Probably the alcohol. I look towards my friend who is laughing throughout this whole process and our florist finally gives up. Luck was in our favor because there was a table near us with five women and a younger gentleman. The rose seller practically floats to them. I always wonder what they do with the extra roses they do not sell at the end of the night. Hopefully, their spouses have not become too desensitized to the gesture of a rose.