The Flower Girl was nearly a blank page, not of personality, she had quite the shining character but her mind was like a notebook which was scribbled on with secrets and hushed confessions from people, more often than not strangers.

She absorbed your words, rethought them, curled and reshaped them, smoothed them out and folded them back in the crevices of her little library; she was not one to judge, she only listened and she listened very well.

The strange thing about the Flower Girl was her title; she did not work in a flower shop, she knew nothing about flowers or how to take care of them, evident of the absence of plants in her little vacant bar. They called her the Flower Girl because of the flower shop next to her lonely, depressing business; it seemed more charming then Bar Girl but it also seemed to fit her more, the more you watered her with secrets, the more she bloomed.

It was a process that had been seen hundreds of times and yet the Flower Girl was a mystery to most anyone. She walked in, stayed and listened and served, walked out. Even her name was a secret.