The Night-time Rose Vendor

There's a man that walks around the city each night with a bunch of red roses in his hand. Individually wrapped. He goes into every bar and restaurant, trying to sell them to customers. Perhaps not every bar and restaurant, but I've seen him in the handful of establishments I haunt, infrequently. I've seen him walk the dark streets, alone, cellophaned roses resting on the crook of his arm or held in his fist like a burning torch. The restaurant owners tolerate him. More than just tolerance - they greet him, smiling, as he comes to pester their patrons. I've seen people decline politely. I've seen others meet his gaze with nothingness; a blank stare, a lack of comprehension. Why would I want a rose? Why is this man interrupting my dinner? I've seen girls look down, slightly slighted, as their beau says no.
 I have yet to see someone buy one.

I wonder if anyone does? How many roses does he sell each evening? What is his day job? How much to they cost, these roses he's selling? How much profit does he make?

How many more like him are there out there? I have seen them, these nocturnal restaurant-to-restaurant trinket-mongers, in almost every city I've been to. Walking the lamp-lit streets with flowers, or novelty sunglasses, or flashing headpieces. Shouting their wears, or approaching with quiet hope. Being told no, over and over, or hastily exchanging cash with drunkards before they change their minds. Where do they come from? What are their lives like? Who do they go home to at night?

There's a man that walks around the city each night with a bunch of red roses in his hand. Individually wrapped. The next time I see him, I am going to buy one.