An Anthology of Darkness

Red Rose

Grayson believed himself to be a reasonable man, possibly even a realist, although he was completely the opposite of reasonable. He worked as an accountant for a halfway decent company, native to his small city. And because he was pretty good at numbers, his family was always asking him to balance their checkbooks. He saw the frivolous spending of people and he internally shamed them for their poor choices.

At this very moment, Grayson was trying to stifle a powerful yawn that was threatening to interrupt the constant scratch of pen on paper. He sat across the room from his friend, with his hands folded neatly in his orange jumpsuit lap and his toes wiggling silently in his unscuffed bright white tennis shoes.

His back ached and his butt was quickly growing numb. He never understood why his friend choose to decorate this room with such uncomfortable furniture. It didn't matter if Grayson sat on one of the two chairs in the room or the black leather couch with its sticky fake leather, he was always uncomfortable. Always.

The room was small and slightly cramped, there wasn't much for decoration or fancy decals, which Grayson admired greatly. A small desk was tucked away in the far corner, a heavily written on calendar tacked above the desktop. There were a few health awareness posters loitering the walls, two cushioned, albeit poorly, chairs on which they sat on, and one lonely, but justifyingly so, couch pushed up against the eggshell colored wall.

Grayson would never leave his tiny room to come here if he had the choice, but his friend insisted on meeting. So he sat there, growing increasingly uncomfortable and impatient, watching his friend run the tip of a pen swiftly across a plain, blue composition notebook.

While waiting for his friend to stop writing, Grayson thought about what he would do when it hit three o'clock. Maybe he'd go out to the courtyard and people watch, or better yet he could go back to his room, which he luckily had all to himself, and work on his masterpiece, he could just envision the curve and edges of her red lips, the paint from the tip of the brush dripping in pure anticipation. Yes, he would like that very much.

But then the scratching of pen stopped and Grayson looked at his friend, who was looking at him.

"So," his friend said, "tell me about the girl."

A bright smile slipped easily onto Grayson's face with the simple thought of her. This girl was beautiful, radiant, and alluring. The gleam in her hazel eyes was arresting and the curve of her red lips when she smiled was captivating. His heart fluttered rapidly in his chest when he thought of her.

"I don't know her name," he said softly, "sometimes I call her Rose. I feel like she would be a Rose."

His friend nodded his head thoughtfully, quickly jotted something down in his book, and then gestured for Grayson to continue.

"Well I first met Rose on my way home from work. There was roadwork, as there always is. I drive a 1999 red Jeep Wrangler, the same car I've had since high school. It was summer and I had the radio on."

He thought about how the sun beamed down on him, his convenience store sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and the feeling of the roaring wind pushing through his hair, creating a dance of chaos.

"I was listening to a classic rock station, 89.4 to be exact. AC-DC's "Thunderstruck" was on. Have you ever heard of it?"

His friend nodded his head again. "Yes, I have."

"Great song, eh?" Grayson laughed a little.

When his friend didn't answer, Grayson continued his story. "Well you know when motorcyclists wave or nod hello as they pass each other? Yeah, well it's the same for Jeep drivers."