Night of Rose

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
During the night, Rose thinks of escaping her life with her lover.

Submitted: May 02, 2017

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Submitted: May 02, 2017



Rose lay on her back, staring at the speckled white ceiling above her bed, her hand resting tucked into the band of her underpants, breathing heavily. She was sweaty—her tank top drenched in one kind of sweat, her underpants in another. It had been another long day at work. One of these days she would quit her job at the restaurant and live the homeless lifestyle: not responsible for anyone or anything, just got to find some food in a grocery store dumpers and an abandoned building to sleep in. That sounded much better to her than working endlessly to pay endless bills, paying bills to keep an apartment, keeping an apartment to live the clean and valuable life that her parents would want for her. She was her own person though—why should she keep up this façade for them?

Rose’s parents did not approve of many of her life choices. She already felt nothing but disappointment from them, for her grades in high school, for her fashion choices and for the people she dated. That’s why she got out of town as soon as she could. That and she wanted to be free from the obligations to attend the small town college or have a career at the mines. She wanted to get away from everything her childhood gave her: her angst, her anger, the feelings of inferiority that her parents insisted she have. On some level, all of their pressures came from some place of love, Rose was sure. She didn’t want to ditch them entirely. She didn’t call them, ever, but they knew where she was, at least, in case her mother ever decided to include Rose on her famous Christmas card list or whatever.

She rolled to her side. Next to her lay a gorgeous woman. She was older than Rose. Much older, Rose felt: much more mature. She had long, silky hair the color of mahogany, cut into cute fringe which hid her eyebrows. Her cheeks were thin, and her chin strong set, giving her a dignified, serious expression, even in her sleep. The appearance of the woman often made Rose fell insecure: with her own small, dull eyes, and dusty blond hair; and thin, gangly body. Rose placed her hand over the woman’s waist. She swept her hand over the round, sumptuous curve of the woman’s bare breast, and back down over the soft slope of the hip. The woman did not wake up. Lucy let out a sigh.

In a way, this sleeping woman was Rose’s mentor, her savior from a tortured life. Whenever the woman left—and she always left for very long periods of time, when she did—Rose would feel emptiness in her chest that haunted her. Rose would not be able to eat. She would waste away into nothing, if her lover were never to return. But the woman made sure to come back. She always had to come back for Rose. Rose drifted to sleep with a final thought: that one of these days, the woman would take Rose with her, and neither of them would have any reason to return.

© Copyright 2019 Madison Thomas. All rights reserved.

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