Rosie was all lady, she was. She was all thick silver zips and untreated leather, tiny freckled nose. She was small hips Ro. She tied her shoelaces tight and wore lumpy black cardigans, heard the husk of Tom Waits’ rise slowly out of old speakers in her one-bedroom apartment, telling her about the apricot tips she set alight in indigo skies.
I asked Rosie if she loved me and she told me that she did.
“Do you love me Ro?” I asked. “Do you?”
She was stripes down to her little toe, she was tight jeans and slick, slick, slick.
