"She loves me; she loves me not. She loves me; she loves me not..."

I sat at the bar, pulling petals from a daisy flower. It's a stereotype, but I just can't figure out this girl, and I need something to tell me what to do. 

I hear the bell ring as the tavern door opens. I would usually ignore it, and especially now, since I'm in the middle of something important. But, an unusual hush comes over the place, and I can't help but to look at whoever has entered. 

The man has an air about him. Most people who come to Francesca's are sailors, homeless, washouts; you know; the usual riffraff of society. But this man who entered looks like he's come from French low nobility. His aged features scream his heritage, and his white and pale blue colors state quite plainly that he is not accustomed to the dirty streets of England. 

Yet, he doesn't seem to care about the location; he just looks like an old man looking for a good drink. 

He approaches the bar and sits down. He's a couple feet from me, and he places currency on the bar, ordering a mug of "something fit for a gentleman, please." Fran accepts his money and sets a mug of her best Irish coffee before him, letting him know that what's in it. He smiles, thanks Fran, and takes a sip. 

By now, most people in the tavern have gone back to their usual conversations. It happens on occasion that an out-of-towner gentleman visits, so most people don't care enough to make a fuss. 

After a minute, the gentleman looks over at my daisy. Then he looks me in the eye. "Have you ever seen a flower with infinite petals?"

I look at him, slightly confused. I shake my head. 

He smiles, and then he brings a few photos from a pocket, and he hands them to me. "Love is a confusing thing sometimes. Sometimes you don't even know if you're in love. Sometimes you doubt the other person's intentions. I take it that is where you are, yes?"

I nod.

"Ah, I see," he continues. "The flower with infinite petals is like this. You can go back and forth; you can pick the petals until the world burns, but it is really up to you to choose. Do you pursue? Or do you not? Do you try? Or do you not? Does she love you? Or does she not? You will never know unless you try finding out. You see these pictures here; they are all the ladies I have loved. Some have returned my love; some have not. But, all of them gave me an honest answer. That is what you need to do, boy. Find the girl who you love, and find if she loves you as well. If she does, I will be glad for you. If she does not, I have several daughters who would love a man such as yourself who has cares enough to think about his choices. Either way, let me know how it goes; I love to hear people's stories almost as much as I love to share them!"

He then went on to share his stories of each girl in the pictures. Several were noble ladies higher on the chain than him, several lower, and several were simple peasant girls. Every picture had a story, and every girl had a smile. Some rejected him, some were now passed away, and some were currently part of his large group of lovers. And three were his available daughters, who he bragged about. 

I felt embarrassed, as I was too poor to afford a photographer. He told me that I was welcome to use his, especially if it would help my lady make up her mind. He wrote how to contact him and handed me the paper. He finished his coffee, thanked Fran, got up, patted my shoulder, and left the tavern.