The hair was wispy and ice blond: a thin, fluffy ducktail at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were closed: a collection of deep folds framing a snubby nose. Soft skin growing cold in my hands, I decided to cover her in the soft blanket I’d picked out months before. It matched her tiny pink mouth, frozen in an eternal silent scream. She came at 1:23 PM, on February 14.
After it was all over, I had her in my lap, and we saw a couple walking past my door, then stopping; their bodies warped by the cloudy, plastic window separating us. The boy handed the girl a flat pink box. She opened it, revealing a jeweled heart on a slim silver chain.
I had given my own love her own necklace, though not as sparkly: it was raw and angry around her neck, red in holiday spirit.
After thanking him with a passionate kiss, the teenage girl took something from her pocket: I heard the crinkle of paper: a card, perhaps. “Roses are red,” the girl began, smiling self consciously.
But my Rose was blue.