Jean Prouvaire had seen the girl every day. He did not know her name, only her face, always sullen at the desk and shining when with a customer. He looked through the hazy atmosphere of the flower shop to her everyday on his way to the Musain.

Late one night, he passed again and was inspired.

It was dark and she was the only one in the shop. She was sweeping, her eyelids heavy, her cheeks the rose of the flowers, the broom brushing lazily over the floor as her face remained expressionless but downcast.

Jean loved the vision so much that he stood there, watching her. He stood, the humid night seeping into his lungs as he watched the girl simply work.

A divine force moved him to take a step forward and then another. He opened the door, which in a fault was not locked, and before the innocent girl could react to the ringing of the bell, she was scooped into strong arms and kissed with a firecracker's force and an ember's heat.

Disturbing, yes, but it felt right to Jean and she kissed him back with another firecracker and they passed for a minute when Jean pulled away.

Jean's deep brown and green eyes stared into the blue eyes that stared to the back of his head.

"Bonjour." he said, stepping back a half step, leaving his hands on the girl's hips.

She said nothing.

"My name is Jean Prouvaire."

She stared silently into his eyes.

"I'm a poet."

Still nothing.

"I have seen you every day for the past several months. I never came in to talk to you and I don't even know your name, but your innocent beauty captivated me. I don't know where you live or anything, but I pass by here every day and I see you, watering the flowers and writing at the desk. I won't do this again if you don't want me to, but I was inspired to act and I usually let myself do so." Jean paused hesitantly and released the girl from him, stepping back.

The girl looked at him blankly. Jean was getting nervous.

"The only thing I ask from you is a name."

And she was still silent.

They stood for a moment as Jean looked nervously to the ground and around.

"Yes. Well, I should be off, shouldn't I?" Jean started backing away, his hands in his pockets.

"Rose." She said, softly and in a sound so sweet as it could be a candy if sound were tangible.

"Rose." Jean repeated, a smile coming across his face as he stepped backwards. "Rose." He said softly as he walked down the street.

In the flowershop, Rose picked up her notebook and looked fondly at the sketch of the man who always looked in the window. She smiled as she looked on Jean Prouvaire.