It was raining cats and dogs that day, the open flower shop next door had been shut off, all the flowers wrapped in large plastic garbage bags protecting them from drowning, but her bar remained open to one and to all.

The Cajun tunes of Hank William’s ‘Kaw-Liga’ had her bobbing her head, giggling slightly at the lyrics. The bell let out a smooth ‘ding!’ as another stranger walked in; she’d taken note of his lethal appearance with a little uneasiness. He sat down and hung his head, a heavy sigh exiting his bow lips.

She awaited his order.

“A Screwdriver.” He said simply, unthreatening. What a humble order, she thought to herself, mixing the vodka with the appropriate amount of orange soda.

“Thank you.” He nodded, accepting the drink meagerly as she noticed the strong twinge in his accent; his way of running words together as they left through his mouth in the verbal equivalent of a tangled slinky. “It’s nice in here.”

His words were whispers, nearly going unheard because of the loud pitter-patter of the rain; perhaps he wanted it that way. He drank his beverage with a grimace, convincing her that he wasn’t really a drinker but when it came to last resorts to clear your head you work with what you have.

This person was elegant; clothed in black, sleek curves and turns, his arms bulging with a bit of muscle but not too excessive. His under eyes were painted with charming little tufts of skin, reminiscent of a tired child and they hung low, along with the expression in his eyes. He felt a deep, deep sadness.

“W-what is your... name?” he stammered as he set his drink down looking up at her hopefully.

She squinted her eyes at him; misunderstanding his words, she shook her head in confusion. She couldn’t understand his accent very well.

He blinked at her, probably at a loss, hoping that his first attempt would’ve worked. “Where a-are you from?” he tried again.

She understood it better this time but still looked at him with a raised eyebrow; where she was from was quite obvious.

He shakily scratched his head, gulping nervously. “I’m sorry.” He said in his smallest voice. “I-I’m just trying to get the hang of this language... It never comes out properly.”

After a few more drinks the stammering subsided, he leaned against the counter comfortably and hiccupped. “I’m from QingDao.”

She looked at him questioningly. “China.” He answered her look with a laugh at the end.

She nodded, invested as she wiped the counter. “You’re quite small,” he said, “My mom is almost as tall as you.”

She smiled, embarrassed. Well, height wasn’t everything. Maybe.

“I always used to make fun of her for it.” He giggled, his laughs gliding around the room followed by a sigh and silence, the smile disappearing off his face like sand in an open palm. “I miss them sometimes; my parents.”

The more he drank, though, the more slurred his accent became and the more she couldn’t understand.

“Nǐ shì nà zhǒng,” he giggled with a rosy blush ading his pale cheeks. She blinked at him incredulously, not understanding him at all. “My best friend is kind of like you; quiet, a listener. He also works behind the counter though he isn’t as short.” He laughed a little too loudly at that- if you could call it as such- joke. “He’s ta~ll, really tall, tall enough to reach the flowers on the top shelf. Can you imagine?”

Reach the flowers?

He looked sideways at the wall adorned with pictures of frizzy haired 70’s rock stars and melodious 50’s singers, the neon-blinking jukebox and glass-encased newspaper clippings of significant events that had happened between 1950s to the 1980’s. He gasped. “In fact...”

He hopped off his bar seat and started touching the wooden exterior of the wall. “He’s right next door!” he grinned happily, obviously drunk. “Wu fan! WU FAN! It’s Zitao, can you hear me!?”

She didn’t have the heart to tell the guy that the flower shop was closed today, but found a bit of bewilderment at the fact that a random stranger happened to know her neighbor; she’d never even seen the flower shop cashier. What a small world, she thought.

She noticed the sudden silence and turned to look at the boy called Zitao. He sat staring at a bulletin from 1985 stuck to the board, a black and white photo of a young woman holding a trophy staring victoriously at the camera.

Lu Xaolin, the headline read, Winner of National Martial Arts Open Championship!

Youngest ever to receive a seventh duan from the International Wushu Federation, it exclaimed in smaller text.

He stared at it. “I practice wushu,” he said. “I have been since I was six,” he caressed the text that sat beneath the glass. “I remember hating it sometimes that I just wanted to quit but after leaving I realized how much it really means to me.”

She laced her hands in front of her apron. “I really want to g-go back...” he whimpered, head against the glass. “I want to go back home, where I felt like I was good at a lot of things, where I could speak without repeating myself over and over... without feeling like my feelings don’t get across to other people.”

Her lip twitched hoping that this young and beautiful boy wouldn’t cry; she wouldn’t know how to handle it, she was inexperienced at that type of thing. “I want to go back and eat basi digua, to win some more rap competitions, t-to hug my mother and tell her I’ll never leave...”

He felt a small hand on his shoulder and he looked towards its owner with red eyes, tears gathering at their corners threatening to fall. “Perhaps,” she said and his eyes squinted, disbelieving that she had actually said anything after all this time. “Your feelings can be conveyed through more than words.”

Actions were important. He looked at his hands and the girl took hers back, standing a healthy distance away. “B-but, how?” he said, eyes looking at her desperately. She shrugged and then nodded her head in the direction of the newspaper clipping. He turned to look at him, jaw slack from fatigue.

It suddenly occurred to him. “By working hard at things that I love, then?” he sniffled. She smiled, and then shrugged again. He stared at her with his wide, sharp eyes, aping dwelling beneath their dark surfaces. He opened his mouth to speak before closing it again.

He wordlessly left a bill on the counter and popped his collar, burying his head in his jacket before trudging out in the ruthless rain. He nearly slipped because the alcohol still hadn’t worn off. She nearly helped him but as the door flapped closed, she saw a tall male, a very tall male run up to Zitao and help him.

Zitao smiled at him with familiarity and nodded at the words coming from the stranger’s mouth. She had stopped mid step and had been taken back by the way his and her eyes met; he nodded at her and continued to help his drunken friend to his feet before disappearing down the street, their backs obscured by the mist and rain.

She took to wiping Zitao’s empty glass, cleaning it with her cloth. She felt a chill run down her spine as she surveyed the bar and in that moment she sincerely felt a bit lonely.

She shook it off and stared out the door again.