Parallel Infinities

  Chapter Two

  The first time had been an accident. Months ago on a bleak, dreary night, Rosetta had collapsed onto the bed with silent sobs heaving within her chest, trapped behind the thick skin she had adapted for herself. The world had been so dark, spattered with poisonous stains of failure. Her grades had plummeted to a sorry, abysmal low. Her father had receded to being unresponsive at best. Her life had gone dark with sadness. Her mind had gone blank with numbness. The Novocain of exhaustion had been drifting through her blood.

  She had grown stiff, statue-like in demeanor as she pressed her spine into the saggy mattress and closed her eyes, trying futilely to shut everything out. She did not want to move unless she could leap, fly, soar away from the misery of a life that was simultaneously monotonous and out of control. Untamed, unrequited desire for something she could not even identify was flaming at her bones, tearing up the marrows like wicks. Smoke had poured into her head and singed the backs of her eyelids, leaving her vision blurred and her soul in tatters.

  A ravenous hunger for sleep had pricked at her like an injection, slowing her breathing and making her eyelashes feel as heavy as prison bars. Upon realizing that her homework was not completed, Rosetta had clenched her fists and surged out of bed, hurrying with astonishingly silent steps to the backpack that contained the torturous assignment, only to find that her hands...

  Rosetta had shaken her head, unable to believe what she was seeing. Once again her fingers had fumbled for the zipper of her bag, and once again right through what should have been tangible material. Fear had jolted into her veins, crackling through her joints like volts of electricity as she reeled back. Whirling around, she had been unspeakably perplexed to see a strange, translucent, silvery cord, no more than a few centimeters in diameter, stretching from inside her room and directly into her midsection. Emitting a choked shriek, she had jerked back, waving her hands through the foreign thing wildly as she staggered away from it. She had discovered very quickly that she could not bat the silver string away; any time her hands passed through it, it simply dissolved and reformed again without any difficulty. Relatedly, she could not get away from it; the odd, ethereal, intangible cord had followed her wherever she went and had not stretched when she distanced herself farther from its starting point--rather, it lengthened with ease. It had transcended everything she knew to be true about reality. It had no texture, no scent, no clue that it existed other than its visibility. It had scared her but also intrigued her.

  After a few seconds of squinting in confusion at the otherworldly cord, Rosetta had been shaken by a chilling thought. Where, her mind had whispered fearfully, does it lead? Almost blindly, Rosetta had stumbled along the path that the silvery rope seemed to lay out. It swept through the hallway, tracing the exact route she had taken to get to the bag, and swooped around the door into the quiet, solitary room from which she had come. Once her frenzied steps brought her into that normally-pleasant sanctuary of sleep and cold mornings spent under warm blankets, she had been hit with a wave of terror so massive and sharp that it had felt like a dagger tearing into her chest, carving brutally through flesh to scrape against her quaking bones.

  There, laying lifeless on the bed, was her body.

  Rosetta had felt her blood go cold. Everything felt wrong. The world seemed to spin. Everything was shaking. No. No, she was shaking. Fear. Fear. Fear.

  A loud snap, like the crack of a whip, had resonated between her ears, and her vision had grown whitewashed and distorted until she slowly returned to her senses, finding herself back within her body. She had curled up her hands just to be sure, scraping her nails against the soft, taut skin of her palms, to confirm that she was real.

  Gradually terror turned to curiosity, as it often does in clever minds. Rosetta had found herself becoming fascinated, if not obsessed, with the inexplicable happenstance. Had it simply been a dream? A fluke, a fantasy, an odd falsity? Certainly that is what most would attribute it to, and Rosetta knew that. But she dared to wonder otherwise. What if it had been real? What if it had been true? And what was it exactly?

  Thereafter, fueled by pure intrigue, Rosetta had tried it again. The stillness was familiar to her, and she found that the intense urge to move followed suit if she could keep her mind conscious long enough; and thus, her adventures were born.

  Now, as Rosetta rose up into the sky, letting the spirit of her existence float aimlessly through the air for a few moments, the dimension of souls was as calm and peaceful to her as her own living room. It was not technically called a dimension of souls, at least, not as far as Rosetta knew. That was just what she opted to call it since no physical being could seem to view it or feel it. She had tried once to hug a crying child who had been left alone on the street, but the chubby-cheeked boy had looked right through her, unaware of her pity. Even her view of other travelers—at least, which was what she presumed they were—drifting through the astral plane was distorted and murky. They appeared like phantoms, swirling mists of various colors, blues and greens and reds, all writhing in dark, black clouds in somewhat humanoid shapes. Sometimes it seemed they were looking at her. At first, it was disconcerting, but eventually, she grew accustomed to it.

  Traveling this way was a strange separation of body and soul, but, equally strangely, that was not an unwelcomed feeling. It was freeing, in a way. Perhaps even purifying. Bodies chipped and cracked, becoming broken and bruised. But a soul? A soul was an eternity, flying far beyond death's icy fingers and dabbling in mortality for no more than a scintilla of time. A soul could not chip like fine china, nor could it bruise like fragile, petty skin.

  "Where should I go today?" she asked the pigeons that perched on the edge of a building as her feet touched down. Though things like walls and roofs offered little resistance when she tried to pass through them, it made Rosetta feel queasy, so she generally contained herself to obeying the boundaries they etched into the world. The birds paid her no more attention than she expected, opting to coo contentedly at the dark, starry sky, preening their iridescent feathers under the moonbeams falling down onto her small corner of the world. She had not travelled far this time—not yet. She was almost ritualistic in her practice, never failing to spend a few minutes watching over the city in which she had grown up, the city in which she had made a name for herself, the city in which she had lost herself.

  I like it this way, Rosetta decided. None of the noise, none of the fake interest, none of the memories daylight seems to illuminate. The town itself seemed to snore as the faint sounds of occasional cars whooshed by along the streets, only to fade out again as quickly as they made themselves heard. The crickets chirped in rhythm, crescendoing as they tuned themselves to the wind's whispery song. Lights in apartment buildings flickered out one by one, as if someone were blowing them out in a randomized succession like candles. The city went to sleep, the eyes of the weary fell shut as another day drowned beneath the horizon, and the songs of the stars came to pour the beauty and tragedy of night into the intuitive artists' minds. Rosetta herself felt moved by the dolce notes that she, a person with intelligence marked only by facts and figures, never paintbrushes or pencils, could not even fully hear. It was a beautiful, secret, unabashedly intimate time, when all the false constructs of the day fell away—feigned smiles intending to win damaged hearts, forced laughter, and all—leaving nothing but the quiet symphony of conjoined heartache and hope.

  "I could go anywhere," she continued. "Anywhere in this whole world. You want to know how I do it?" The pigeons gave no response, but Rosetta answered anyway, enthralled by the possibilities of her unlimited capabilities. "I do it by hoping that I can." She sat down on the edge of the building, running her intangible fingers over the concrete that she could not feel. Her hair cascaded in thick waves over her shoulders like rich maple syrup, shadowy and glossy in the pale glow emanating from the streetlights below. "Isn't that beautiful? As a kid, I was always wishing on stars, wishing for silly little things. I once wished for my
sister to turn into a toad." Rosetta chuckled fondly. "She stole one of my necklaces, that's why. One I got from...oh, never mind."

  A small bat whizzed above her head, ducking and weaving through the air. Its jagged wings cut into the sky like dark stained glass. It squeaked shrilly, as if to laugh along with Rosetta. The noise reminded her of Rachel's laugh, mouse-like and reserved, as if the short burst of happiness could be drawn out longer if she bottled some of it in her heart and refused to let it out.

  "But it means I can go anywhere," she continued, her voice laced with enchantment. "Anywhere on a whim. It's wonderful."

  It had not always been wonderful, needless to say. Traveling over large distances had been something she had learned over time. At first she had been timid of the ability. Levitating a few inches off of the ground (which was, in itself, arbitrary to her, but she had preferred to avoid thinking about that fact for the first dozen trips or so) had been almost too much to handle; it sent her blood spinning in a flurry of adrenaline through her veins and her lungs gasping for oxygen as her chest rose and fell with an overwhelming, skittish sort of awe. She had quickly and unquestioningly fallen in love with the feeling, pursuing it like some pursued cigarettes or stolen kisses that tasted of lipstick and wine or nostalgia, the most addictive drug of all. She found that it was the same feeling she could pinpoint within herself when she read of elven peoples and ghastly beasts guarding ancient caverns. It was the sense of adventure, the sense of discovery, the sense of soul-striking freedom that she craved. She read of confident heroes and imagined being one herself, seeing mountains and rivers and little undiscovered, unknown corners of the world, watching life rise up and fall down as the earth heaved sigh after sigh.

  Still, moving through the world like a ghost, half-carried by the wind and subconscious inhibitions, possessed its drawbacks. It felt strikingly like looking at the world through the blurry mirror of memory, as if she were peering into a place that she did not exactly fit into. Perhaps the dissonance was the world trying to shield her eyes from the places that her dreaded "real life" would not allow her to see. Rosetta supposed it was a bit like cheating, in more ways than one, but, in complete honesty, it did not matter much to her. It was wonderful.

  Rosetta closed her eyes and slipped into the warm, silent, dark space that seemed to grant infinite pathways to infinite places. She relished the bliss of knowing that she could not get lost. The silver cord, which had turned out to be far more of a blessing than a curse, always led her home, even on the days she may have preferred not to return. There was always something to bring her back; that much was undeniable. Sometimes it was Rachel's smile. Sometimes it was a friend's proposition to meet for breakfast the next morning. Sometimes it was exhaustion. Always it was too real, too basic, for Rosetta's liking.

  She had visited Paris. She had visited Madrid. She had seen many examples of human urbanization and busyness, all lined up like museum exhibits for her to look at with the eyes of an outsider, a foreigner. Today, she thought, somewhere quieter. Somewhere peaceful. Cherry blossoms. Blue sky. Green grass. She could see the image of a beautiful, secluded place forming in her mind. Satisfied, she lunged for it, and the grainy mental image blasted into all the liveliness of its true identity.

  Rosetta felt like she had been swept into a postcard photograph. The world was dyed a pretty pastel pink; it dripped from the tree branches like wet paint and pooled onto the earthy ground, pouring over the rivulet-roots writhing beneath the soft skin of the earth. The petals of the blossoms reminded Rosetta of fairy wings: gentle, tender, soft, and engraved with the sweet vows of nature itself. They rustled in the wind, brushing past her feet and catching on the lean tree trunks rising like fountains of floral fancifulness. The sky gleamed through the latticework of beauty in baby-blue patches, and sunlight filtered down in thin beams. The air smelled of a sweetness more innocent and pleasant than any perfume. It was the sort of place that just felt inherently quiescent, where the light breeze would sweep away any lingering sorrow and the soft flower petals falling to the ground would wipe away any tears trapped within a broken spirit. Purity, Rosetta thought. This is a place of purity.

  She liked it; that much was decided in a heartbeat. Her soul felt at home in the little grove of cherry blossoms. She found herself falling—no, floating—down, drifting downward until her metaphysical back touched the ground. She was relaxing on a bed of fallen flowers, bathing in their aroma and breathing in their aura. Peace filled her to the brim until her head was overflowing with pleasantry so pronounced that she could linger on the borderline of remembrance and forgetfulness, teetering over the edge and sincerely debating whether it would be worth holding onto what was technically real when dreams were so much lovelier.

  Rosetta remained motionless for as long as she could stand to sit still. Eventually, the peacefulness would pale to boredom, but for as long as she could, she relished the nature-borne silence. Even the birds seemed hushed around this place, as if it were sacred. As if it were secret. As if it were perfect. She saw a few wandering souls sweep by, waxing into existence nearby and waning, phasing in and out like the moon did over the course of many nights. None of them stayed longer than a few seconds--just long enough for her to catch a glimpse of them before they dissipated. She wondered who they were and if they were wondering who she was, but she did not bother wondering for very long. Her cares were chaff, blown from her mind as easily as puffs of smoke when her eyes returned to the saccharine blossoms stretching to form a canopy above her, a complex woven work of nature and sky with dark, coarse, raw bark holding it all together.

  A low sound drifted over the narrow pathway that seemed to flow through the pastel forest rather than cut through it, and softly brushed over her ears. Foreign, beautiful words flew daintily on the breaths of the wind, and the deep, rich voice that sang them resounded in Rosetta's head like a tolling bell.

  "Mia carissima, gemma più preziosa, come dolce sei, come fiera."

  Rosetta felt herself rising upward, somehow beyond her conscious control. Her soul clung to the music, sticking to it like honey in its comb, and desperately yearning to find it, to be close to it, to join in with it. The voice dipped and rose, scaling the peaks of high notes and scooping deeply into the valleys of low ones. It blended with the wind, and it seemed to be bursting with all the intense, flaming heat of the sun.

  "Sei una candela nel buio della nostra incertezza, un saluto in un mondo di addii."

  The song, slow and sweet like a waltz performed in candlelight and bathed in good memories, wormed its way into Rosetta's veins, and her heartbeat seemed to match its tempo. She suspected that the music was meant to mimic a pulse, at least in some way. The impact of certain syllables and delicate rush of others betrayed the secrets that the foreign language meant to keep. She felt herself being pulled to the sound, drawn to it like a butterfly to a flower's sweet, nectarous aroma.

  "Ci incontreremo al chiaro di luna, e vi bacio, il mio Fiore. Da mezzanotte fino al mattino, siamo insieme, siamo innamorati, siamo reali."

  The pathway in the midst of the trees bent and gave way to a stony shore which led to a glassy lake. The pastel-pink trees reflected in the water as if it were a perfect mirror, and the sun glossed over the shimmering surface giving it a golden, almost metallic appearance. And there, standing beside the lake with a patient sort of stature and shining eyes turned skyward, was a man. He was burly and broad-shouldered, and muscles rippled under the tan skin of his arms. He was clad in ragged jeans and an emerald-colored shirt with short sleeves that hung just over his shoulders; it seemed to be just a bit too small for him. His hair swept down over his ears in rich, chestnut-hued waves that complemented the glimmering brown shade of his irises. His eyes were almond-shaped and wide with wonder, gazing at the world with a sort of permanent awe and exuberance. His jawline was sharp, so defined, as if edges of glass had carved it out, and his cheekbones carved more angles into his features. Sunlight streamed onto his smiling face as he sang once
again. It was his voice that could send the whole world into hushed reverence, or so it seemed.

  "Siamo insieme, siamo innamorati, siamo..."

  Rosetta had not meant to interrupt, but hearing his voice and standing so near to him sent chills down her spine. He possessed the voice of an angel. His body was an orchestra; it flowed with the movement of his song, rising up as the notes crescendoed and somehow shrinking as they faded back into a whispery pianissimo. She drew in a gasp, and the man's head turned toward her, looking very nearly alarmed.

  "Mi hai spaventato! Quando sei arrivato?" He was not singing anymore—rather, he was asking, or perhaps demanding. His cheeks darkened slightly, and his lips regressed to a thin line as he pressed one of his hands to the back of his neck.

  Rosetta reeled back as if she had been pushed away. His eyes looked straight into hers, and whatever words he was saying were meant to communicate with her. "H-How can you?" Rosetta stammered, feeling equal parts horror and ecstasy, and a shock so intense she did not even finish the question. Out of nowhere, a loud, rapping noise—the sharp, quick sound of knuckles on wood—cut through her head like a dagger. The silver cord dragging complacently behind her gave a swift tug. It embodied the call of reality, the beckoning of what she should consider real, what she should consider important. Rosetta dug her heels into the ground as best she could. I can't be dragged back, not now, her mind insisted. He can see me. He can see me!

  A look of realization was dawning slowly on his face like a sunrise on a misty morning. "Pensi davvero mi vedi?" His eyes were even wider than before, and they looked over her time after time, searching for answers to a question that she did not understand. "Mi capisci?"

  The knocking sound rattled sharply within her skull again, faster and more insistent this time. The silver cord tugged at her, insistent to stitch soul and body together once more. Rosetta shook her head. Nothing made sense. No one could see her when she traveled like this, not ever. Not even those who joined her in an ethereal state of being could see her as more than a shadow, a footprint of her true self, and no creature in a physical form was capable of peeking through the veil set between the skeletons and the souls. Who was this man? What was he? And why on earth had she felt so drawn to him when his voice had wrapped itself around her lungs and stolen her breath away?

  "How is this possible?" The inquiry came out a whisper, and the unfamiliar man squinted at her with a mix of confusion, fascination, and curiosity swirling in his eyes. He should not be able to see her. She should not be able to interact with him. She wanted to believe that something was wrong, but it did not feel wrong. In a strange way, there was a certain gladness she felt at the thought of a soul that she could see.

  The persistent knock tore through her mind again, loud enough to be a scream as it tumbled around inside her skull like boulders crashing down a mountainside. Rosetta tried to cling to the fabric of the fantasy, tried to snatch a piece of a world she could not touch and hold onto it until all waking moments left her to the blissful nothing in peace forever, but it was like trying to keep a dream in one's head after being forced to abandon it for the drudgery of morning. The waking world did not permit such things.

  The last thing Rosetta saw was the man stepping toward her, extending his hand with an incredible lack of hesitation. He was saying something, but she could not hear; the words were muffled, beyond her capacity to comprehend anymore. Then the familiar snapping sound filled the blank state into which she plunged as the trance broke, and Rosetta found herself trapped within her body once more.

  Her senses returned to her slowly, gently, like light waves rolling steadily onto the shore. She could feel the soft sheets enveloping her. She could smell the tropical air freshener that was hidden away on the corner of her birchwood dresser. She could see the cozy, pleasant darkness of the room when she finally worked up the strength to lift her heavy eyelids.

  The obnoxious sound pulsed thrice from her front door. Her limbs twitched, itching to curl up and pretend that she had not heard, but she could not actually bring herself to be so dismissive. A headache had begun to forge itself within her skull, and she rubbed unhappily at her temples in a futile attempt to alleviate it. Casting an annoyed glare in the general direction of the noise, she stood and groggily trudged to the door.

  Yanking it open, Rosetta was not particularly surprised to see Lily standing on the doormat, eyes wide with expectancy and hands positioned at her hips, a posture that frequented her small form. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

  Lily resembled the fragrant white flower she was named for much in the way a fish resembled a chihuahua. She had pale skin that could be likened to the complexion of a porcelain doll, scarlet lips that were perpetually pursed in general distaste of most people around her, hair dyed black with fiery red streaks in the bangs, and though she did not measure up to much more than five feet tall, every cell in her body was charged with the vigor channeled in the kick of a shotgun.

  "No. You know I make a habit of being up at..." Rosetta paused, unsure of the time. She did not have to puzzle over it for long, because Lily leapt for the chance to speak as soon as Rosetta granted it.

  "Ha-ha. You're funny," she spat, but there was no venom in her words. Rosetta detected a trace of defeat in her voice, however. With a softened expression, Rosetta stepped back and invited the explosion of a girl into her home. She did her best to shove the incredible journey she had just taken and the pressing questions swirling through her mind aside, just as she knew Lily would do for her.

  "I try," Rosetta said absentmindedly. "Can I get you anything?"

  Lily scoffed. "A decent man. I've yet to find one." She kicked her shoes off beside the door, and the scratchy, patterned nylons crawling up her legs and beneath her short black skirt were soon to follow, making a crumpled heap beside the trim that lined the wall. She yanked her dark hair out of its elegant bun and allowed it to fall in graceful waves over her shoulders. Lily possessed a strange talent for looking lovely when she was angry.

  "I can manage a cup of cocoa," Rosetta offered gently.

  "Nah." Lily’s tone was dismissive, but her eyes gave away a faint glimmer of appreciation. She strutted determinedly to the living room and flounced onto the couch with a huff of indignation.

  Rosetta plopped down beside her, doing her best to rub the exhaustion from her eyes. "What happened?"

  "My luck happened," Lily spewed. A flash of lightning seemed to zig-zag over her face for an instant, illuminating its anger, power, and fearlessness. Rosetta respected Lily as much as she loved the precious creature; she was so tough when it was necessary, but so tender when she was allowed. Rosetta tended to see more of the latter in private, when the fireworks of fury ceased for a moment.

  "Is this about Darren?" Rosetta gently placed a hand on Lily's arm. She had only met the buff, somewhat dull-eyed man once or twice, but he had taken a place as the latest in a long line of hopeful people intending to court what was essentially lava in a pristine case of snow-white skin. Usually Lily did not take suitors extremely seriously, but Rosetta treaded lightly. It seemed that Lily genuinely liked Darren, even if his close-shaven head appeared to be filled with more air than brain.

  Lily sighed and ran a hand through her hair, shutting her eyes. "Yeah."

  "Oh..." Rosetta's heart clenched with sympathy. "What did he do?"

  "Well, we went on a date tonight. I thought it'd be nice, you know, to celebrate our three-month anniversary, right? But it wasn't. He kept telling me I should drop out of college if I ever wanted to get married, and I was like, 'I don't even want to get married, why on earth would I do that?' and he told me..." Lily let out a sound that fell somewhere between a growl and a groan of exasperation. "You won't believe this—he told me no guy wants to marry a girl that's smarter than he is."

  Rosetta bit back the urge to drown all premonitions of a calm evening chat in colorful expressions of horrified anger. "What'd you do?"

  "I flipped out! Obviously!" Her cheeks turned r
ed, and a small smile graced her lips. "You should've seen the look on his face."

  "Awestruck?" The fascination in the strange mystery-man's face from her adventure took root in her mind for a second, and Rosetta tried to disperse it and focus.

  "Terrified," Lily giggled. Rosetta laughed, too. Lily's spark always managed to lift her spirits.

  There was a brief beat of silence before Lily's voice took off once more. "But that's not even the worst part! So I go to the bathroom because I need to clear my head, right? And I obviously don't want to give him the luxury of seeing me cry," she added.

  "Right," Rosetta affirmed.

  "When I came back out, there was some other girl hanging on his arm, and he was totally flirting with her until he noticed I was there!" Lily's voice had jumped up an entire octave, and her face was flushed with disgust.

  "No way!" The conversation felt strange, almost as if it were meant for high schoolers and not for an engineering student doing her best to support not just herself, but also those whom she loved. However, that was one of the reasons Rosetta adored Lily; when around her, Rosetta felt free, young, and happy. They could talk about anything—everything—and Rosetta found herself clinging to every word, yearning to be as excited about life as Lily seemed to be naturally.

  "I know, right?"

  "That's awful!" Rosetta exclaimed, mortification written all over her face. "Did you walk out?"

  Lily glanced away and pulled her legs up onto the couch, hugging them against her chest. "Not...exactly." Rosetta raised an eyebrow, and Lily ducked her head shyly. Ah, there she is, Rosetta mused thoughtfully. Beyond the thick-skinned exterior of Lily's dark clothes and winged eyeliner and sleek black nails was a rather delicate being that was only revealed in quiet moments like these, where the moon was high, the earth was asleep, and only the shadows could see her secret, sweet beauty. Rosetta was a miraculous exception. For whatever reason, Lily trusted her with each angle of her personality, including the ones she was, arguably wrongly, ashamed of. "I grinned at her and told her to have fun, because he is totally single. Then, I strutted out."

  Rosetta's eyes widened and her head jerked over to face her friend so quickly that she could feel the sore sting of minor whiplash curl around her neck. "Lily!" she gasped. Her mouth hung agape in shock, but amusement bubbled up from her stomach like carbonation in a fizzy drink.

  "I couldn't help it, I was mad!" Lily insisted, digging her sleek black nails into her palms. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

  "Because," Rosetta threw an arm around her and hugged her tightly, "I think it was brilliant."

  She felt a small huff of a laugh against her shoulder, where Lily's head was resting.

  "Really?"

  "Really! Only you, Lily, I swear..." Rosetta was not sure if chiding or applauding was more in order, but she decided on the latter, "…he had it coming. I can't believe he'd just disrespect you like that!"

  "I know," Lily agreed. Her voice receded from anger to hopelessness, and her throat seemed to be drawn tightly. Her words seemed to be forced up past pent-up anguish.

  Rosetta's hand came to rest on Lily's back, right between her pronounced shoulder blades, and rubbed back and forth soothingly. "Yeah, he's a jerk,” Lilly admitted. “I should've known. It's just..." Silence seemed to suffocate the words she wanted to say.

  Rosetta knew the feeling—imprisoned by the quiet, peaceful nature of normalcy, bound to what she was supposed to feel, supposed to say, supposed to want. But if anyone should sprint past such petty lines of society and discard the molds of what hurt and betrayal and uncertainty should look like, it was Lily Herifeather. "Just what, Lil?" Rosetta prompted gently.

  "I...I thought he really respected me, Rosie." Hearing the childhood nickname struck a soft spot in Rosetta's heart. "He acted like he understood, and then, nope! Sorry! He's just like every other dude-bro I've ever had the misfortune of dating." Her face flashed with anger once more, but it dissipated almost instantly, like a thunderstorm fading only to be replaced by hours upon hours of melancholy rain. "I'm not even mad that he's gone. I certainly won't be taking him back in this millennium. I just felt so humiliated in that moment, as if I'd ever actually believe the sort of crap he was spewing."

  Another silence fell upon the room, and it seemed more eerie than the previous ones. Rosetta could tell there were more words fighting to escape Lily's mouth as easily as she could identify a book that had been written too hurriedly or a building that was engineered to fall. Her expression gave it away. It matched those of children slowly pressing their lips shut after having their excitement dismissed by a parent, or cracked souls standing over the sickbeds of loved ones, holding their hands and desperately wanting to say everything and nothing at once. Pensive. Broken. Wounded. Rosetta felt a strange lack of empathy in the midst of all the sympathy that seemed to overtake each nerve in her body. She had an odd relationship with romantic love; sometimes she desired it, sometimes she was fairly certain she could never dedicate such vulnerability to another human being, to hand over her heart with a smile and say, "I trust you not to hurt it."

  Lily, as far as Rosetta could tell, had faith in the "someday" principle of love. She had her heart fixated on the faceless, nameless darling waiting patiently in the future for her to find, or perhaps for her to catch. She always said she was not scared to give chase. Until she could see that person, touch that person, and be sure it really was that person, she held no faith in any simpleton's relationship. "Anyone can find love. That's easy," Lily would always say with a haughty toss of her head, and insert a playful jab about how even an uptight-but-altogether-wonderful woman could do it if she wanted. But always, without fail, she would continue, "The tricky part is keeping it. And the scary part is keeping the right love."

  Rosetta had not been able to settle on what “the right love" could be. Lily seemed to think there was a solid answer, but if that were so, how could so many people have their hearts set on the exact same thing when their lives varied wildly? Perhaps, for some, the right love dripped hot and thick and slow, viscous like maple syrup and surreally sweet, drenching tongues in sweet nothings and minds in sensuous dreams of a life filled to the brim with perpetual ambedo. Perhaps, for others, the right love burned bright, scorching and leaping and consuming wildly, fearsome like fire and jealous like the sirens of the sea, brimming with kisses and tears, bravery and bruised knuckles—memories engraved in minds, never to be forgotten, and burns emblazoned on skin, doomed never to heal. Perhaps, for still others, the right love whispered, barely there and nearly drowned in the gray of monotony, seen only when brushing hair back gently in zephyrs of breath, butterfly kisses on cheekbones, and making life just a little better in a small, strange, lovely way. Perhaps, for some, the right love was no romantic, poetic love at all. Perhaps, for some, the right love was too powerful, too beautiful, too precious to ensnare in meager words.

  "I should've known. To be frank, though, I was going to dump him after dinner anyway. I just didn't expect it to go down so...explosively." Lily shrugged, swiping away the tiniest droplets of water threatening to escape her eyes and smudging her eyeliner just slightly beneath her eyes. She looks so tired, Rosetta mused with more than a little concern.

  "Okay, I'll bite," Rosetta nudged her on the arm. "What'd the idiot do?"

  Lily managed a half-smirk and raised an artfully-sculpted brow. "He told me I shouldn't get steak."

  Rosetta reeled back a bit, bewildered. "Come again?"

  "I know! Weird, right? But his reasoning was just awful. He said that, with a figure like mine, why would I waste it by stuffing myself with 'that junk'," she put air quotes around the two words, "when I could get a salad instead."

  Rosetta rolled her eyes. The notion was almost comical. "And let me guess. He ordered a steak?"

  Lily flung herself back onto the cushions of the couch and let her head loll to the side, groaning in response. "You got it."

  "Boy, does he sound like a winner."

/>   Lily laughed (and snorted intermittently), relieving some of Rosetta's worries. It was how she really laughed, though she usually forcibly replaced it with adorable giggles because she was not too fond of the sound. "Oh, yeah. He was a charmer." A loud rock-and-roll tune blasted from Lily's pocket, and she yanked it out, only to decline whoever was trying to call. "That was him," she explained, turning the phone completely off and setting it aside. "Whatever. I don't have anything to say to him right now," she sniffed, appearing half-disgusted at the thought of attempting conversation with the man.

  "Do you want to stay here tonight?" Rosetta offered, giving Lily a quick hug and standing up in preparation for hunting down an extra blanket or two.

  "Aww, Rosie," Lily cooed, "that's so sweet! But, alas, I'd better not. He'll show up at my door tomorrow for the stuff he left around my house, again. Always forgetting things." She clicked her tongue disapprovingly and grinned slyly. "I want to make sure it's ready for him. And by ready, I mean infused with itching powder."

  "Lily!"

  "What? It's harmless!" she insisted. "...ish."

  "Right," Rosetta said, sarcasm saturating the words. "You are one...unique...person, Lily."

  Lily flashed a winning smile and flounced up, heading for the door with determination. "I'll take that as a compliment. Thanks for getting up, or, whatever. Love you, Rosie!"

  "I love me, too, thanks," Rosetta joked.

  Lily gasped in an exaggeratedly dramatic manner. "Whoa! Was that a scalding burn or a hilarious joke? I must be rubbing off on you!" She slipped on her shoes and retrieved her nylons.

  "Have a safe trip home," Rosetta said. All at once her eyelids were heavy with premonitions of sleep threatening to close and drag her far, far away from the waking world.

  "Will do!" Lily promised. She exited and locked the door behind her, but just before Rosetta could make it into her room for the rest that tantalized her every sense, Lily was knocking once again.

  "You aren't taking him back," Rosetta groaned when she reopened the door.

  "Obviously. This isn't about him," Lily replied. "It's you. This week..."

  A zing of pain ripped through Rosetta's chest, yanking grogginess from her and replacing it with the strange mechanical numbness she had come to think of as an emotional default. "I know."

  "What day is it, again?"

  "Wednesday."

  "And you're going?" Rosetta nodded in confirmation. "Want me to come?"

  Rosetta's eyes hit the floor. "No, thank you," she dismissed. "I think I can do it myself this time." She had tried before, and failed. She remembered it so clearly—the scalding tears, the bleeding memories, the silent sobs, the soft, moist earth beneath her knees as she had sunk to the ground. Not again. Not this time, she told herself for what might have been the hundredth time. "I want to."

  Lily's features were twisted in what Rosetta could only assume to be the marks of shared sorrow—the kind only the dearest and closest friends could seem to feel. "Okay," she whispered. "Call me if you need anything."

  "Of course."

  And thus, Rosetta was once again left alone in a hollow house full of hollow dreams with a heart that ached and was so very, very empty.