The corner flower stall began lending vases by the afternoon, as if a bouquet might need a guest room until dusk. A paper tag hung from each jar: out for a visit, please bring the stems home before the lamps come on.
We asked at the kiosk while a florist wiped a droplet from a returned ribbon. "Roses are excellent houseguests," she said. "They drink politely, they do not fidget, and they always write." One note, still speckled, read only that the water was excellent. Another, in a shakier petal-hand, added that the windowsill had smelled like pie.
By evening the borrowed glass stood in a shining row, each with a tiny napkin. A neighbor swore the tulips had left a tip: one extra petal, folded like a calling card. The next morning the same roses came back for a second outing, as if they had made friends and did not want to be rude.