Rosie always said that the penthouse I lived in was some kind of twisted metaphor for my life. It supposedly represented the way I started from the top and only knew of the best of things.
She said it with a smile, standing in the path of the rising sun that burned her auburn hair golden. She stood with the bravery of a woman that had nothing to lose and nothing to gain. I couldn't help but laugh at her. Rosie was obsessed with finding the deeper meaning of things and was a critic above all else.
In the same way she believed I was a nihilist above all else. But regardless, she was the only friend that defied the sycophantic characteristic that all the others had aggressively embedded within them. She was the only friend that I've ever had.
But Rosie would chortle at the thought. Because of her perceptions of me would heavily dissent with my perceptions of hers.
She was stubborn that way.
