Rose
She's so pretty; I can't help but smile. Even with her face stern from all the anger earlier this morning, and now as she speaks to my elder brother, her MD, she still looks cute—too cute for all the anger she's harboring in her small features. I vividly remember seeing her this morning after accidentally bashing her car. She looked at me like she was ready to rip my shirt off, which I wouldn't mind, by the way. I'm sure if she roughly handled me, pulled me by my hair, or asked me to kneel before her—whatever she deemed fit to punish me so she could let all that anger go—I would happily oblige. I remember how she sneered at me when I was trying to find out if she was hurt anywhere because I was too deep in thought; I didn't notice I had left my lane, causing me to bump into her car.
Why do I suddenly feel responsible for this lady? Why do I want to make her smile, and why do I have the urge to get to know everything about her on a personal level? I have always been someone who doesn't care about other people's feelings, apart from my immediate family members, of course. I easily get irritated when others invade my space. I'm happiest when I am in the comfort of my home, dressed in soft PJs, sipping on wine, and reading any current bestseller book. So, it's shocking that I care about this woman I just met for the first time today.
My love for books started at age 17 when I discovered that the easiest way to learn new English words was through reading. I didn't find the dictionary interesting, so I picked up a fiction novel instead at the school library and haven't stopped reading even after eighteen years. The only thing that surpasses my love for novels is my big brother, Mike.
Mike, or Keze as I usually call him, was the only one who got me. You see, I was the odd child of four—I wasn't your typical female child. I wore men's clothes instead of traditional female clothes, wanted sports cars and video games instead of dolls, played football even though I wasn't really good at it, and always wanted to do what Keze was doing—and he gladly encouraged me. He knew all of my secrets as I knew his. He was there when I went through my first heartbreak, taking me out and making sure I wasn't drowning in tears, even though he didn't know I was dating anyone to begin with. And when I told him I was more interested in my own gender, he didn't act shocked or surprised; he supported me without judgment. So when he called this morning for me to come down to his office, sounding disoriented over the phone, I didn't think twice, rushing down, enduring an accident which was my fault. It turns out, the person who made my heart stop this morning is his.
