rosie | griezmann

1

Antoine could hear her calling him, but he was much more focused on his surroundings. The glass window with white partitions allowed the Frenchman to stare at the skyline of Madrid, or whatever he could make out of it through the thick fog that tainted the sky.

He brought his azure eyes back to the receptionist, who called his name out loud as though he wasn't the only one in the room.

"Griezmann? Antoine Griezmann?"

Antoine let out a shaky breath and stood, walking over to the desk. The woman, middle-aged, spoke yet again with her repulsively nasal voice. "Enter the hallway and knock on the third door from the left."

Antoine didn't say anything before following her instruction. He counted each door as he moved down the hall then stopped at the fourth one, not realizing it was just that: the fourth one. He knocked once, twice, three times. He waited a few seconds.

The door then swung open to a woman who wore a soft-looking grey cashmere sweater and blue jeans. Her skin was the color of café au lait, reminding Antoine of the disgusting one he'd had when he realized he was an hour early to his therapy appointment and had time to kill. No one made them better than France, his home country, and he guessed that he'd learned the hard way.

"Hola." Her voice was calm, cool, and collective. It sounded comforting and routine—not exactly robotic, but practiced, certainly—and Antoine found himself softening up as she tucked her hair behind her ear.

"Hello." Way to sound like a creep, Antoine.

She leant against the doorframe with a small smile at his choice of the English greeting. "How may I help you?"

"I..." Antoine rose his eyebrows. "I'm here for an appointment."

"Oh? I didn't think I had anything scheduled for this hour." Her eyebrows furrowed, slightly confused. Antoine grew self conscious. He didn't want to upset her. "But that's alright—Come in, take a seat." She smiled, moving out of the doorframe so that he could enter her office.

Antoine observed the room. It was cloudy outside, but sunny in there. Almost quite literally—the walls were bright yellow, the shelves a pastel blue—it was an odd contrast that went hand in hand peculiarly satisfyingly. There were tall, bright green miniature trees in each corner of the room, except for the one her desk sat in. To make up for the lack of such, she kept a few succulents in a clear glass container next to a picture frame of her and someone else.

"So, let's start off with your name."

Antoine cleared his throat and spoke. "Antoine Griezmann."

"Antoine, it's nice to meet you." She grabbed a pen with Real Madrid branded on it, causing Antoine's lips to curl. "My name is Rosie."

Rosie. That was a sweet name, he concluded. His mother used to sing him a song titled Rosie—he couldn't remember the words, as his English was poor—but it was a beautiful ballad on a piano, sung by an African-American artist named Bill  Withers who was popular way before Antoine came into existence.

"So, Antoine, why do you think you're here?"

Antoine squeezed the end of the arm chair. He opened his mouth and let his words flow oh-so-freely, and in summary, his words were the following:

It had begun when he was accepted to Clairefontaine, the all-boys soccer academy, at age sixteen. At that age, he was already a promising talent; the best out of all his peers. Of course, some were assumably homosexual, but Antoine didn't think he was one of them.

Years passed and Antoine had now become an adult. His most vivid memory from his nineteenth year on the planet was when he was playing a game of foolish, painstakingly drunk truth or dare with Olivier, Laurent, and a few other random girls at a party; Antoine had said something that rewarded him with a playful shove from Olivier, resulting in him clashing into Laurent. And, of course, it was not only their bodies that ran into one another, but their lips as well.

Laurent had undoubtedly realized what was going on before Antoine did. Antoine hadn't kissed enough women in his lifetime to differentiate the feeling of a woman's lips from that of man; so, as he realized the gravity of the situation, he felt his entire face grow red as the others laughed over the incident.

Now Antoine was twenty-five, and Olivier and Laurent still ridiculed him over the incident. But if they were able to laugh over it, then why couldn't he? It'd plagued his mind for days, weeks, even months. Now it popped up whenever he saw the two on international breaks, or thought of one of them. But it was never lighthearted enough for him to smile or laugh about it.

He'd started dating Erika when he was twenty-three. That was how he told himself he wasn't gay, and the relationship went on for two whole years—all the way up until the very day before Antoine found himself sitting in front of Rosie, telling her this story—because he'd broken up with Erika, for circumstances he wasn't quite sure of. He'd told her things just 'didn't feel right'.

Rosie had been writing this all down on her white notepaper, but eventually she set her pen down and stared at Antoine with wonder as he told his story. When he finally finished, he let out a breath and then nodded, satisfied with his own words.

Rosie cleared her throat. "So, you think you're...um..." She searched her mind for a word a little less general than gay, but blanked. "You think you're gay?"

Antoine intertwined his fingers. "No, I just think something's wrong with me."

"Right. But it seems as though these issues seem to have to do with physical contact you've had with men, and your discomfort in being serious with a woman." Rosie's voice still remained calm.

Antoine shook his head and ran a distressed hand through his blonde hair. "No, I'm not gay."

"It's completely acceptable if you are, Antoine." Rosie smiled a little.

Antoine shook his head more. "But I'm not."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I'm attracted to the way you look. If you wanted to kiss me, I would definitely kiss you back—with tons of passion." He stated, nonchalantly. "And you're a woman, aren't you?"

Rosie's face didn't flinch. It wasn't like it was supposed to—Antoine certainly wasn't flirting with her—and she wasn't allowed to react in such a way, either. "Yes, I'm a woman."

"Exactly. See, I'm not gay." 

"Okay, alright." Rosie held her hands up. "Don't worry, Antoine...I can't make the decision. Only you can."

The mini staring contest that had begun to go on between the two was interrupted by a telephone beeping, which Rosie stood and rushed to answer. "Hello?"

Antoine looked out the window, listening to Rosie speak with a much more authoritative voice. "Yes, he's in here. I'll send him over."

She set the phone down and turned to Antoine, who stared at her with his glossy blue eyes. "What's going on?"

"As it turns out, you aren't my client after all. I think you came to the wrong door." She chuckled, tucking her hair behind her ear. "So, Lena next door is ready to speak with you. Could you give her this paper?" She handed the Frenchman the same sheet of paper she'd been writing on, which was filled with curly illegible handwriting that violated the lines.

Antoine took it into his hands and stood. "Did I waste your time? Sorry, if I did."

"No, no. This is my job...I love what I do." Rosie smiled, grabbed another small, rectangular thick sheet of paper, and handed it to Antoine. "My card. In case you ever want to talk. You can call me any time, Antoine."

Antoine slid it into the pocket of his black jeans, which had a few holes here and there. They weren't his favorite pair, and usually style was really important to him, but he hadn't been his normal self this entire day. So he nodded, thanked her, and left her office; leaving Rosie to stare in wonder at the area in which he'd just been as she came to a conclusion: He was something else. A broken masterpiece, and she was determined to piece him back together.