Roses, Always Roses
"Happy Valentine's Day!"
I stand at the semi-secret mail pickup, which only an Officer Jenny
wouldn't see for what it was, it has a gigantic red R printed on it,
for the sake of all that's evil, and stare at the piece of cardboard
as if it's going to electrocute me. No, wait, it's not yellow?
It's pink, of all colours. Glittery. Hearts frame a cleffa holding a
bunch of roses, and there's something suspiciously like perfume on the
envelope. For a moment I think it must be from *him*! Roses are his
trademark, after all.
I used to love roses. They were like romance itself, so soft to the
touch that I would feel tingles down my spine, their scent as luscious
as their beauty. I never would have thought it was possible to get
sick of roses.
Of course, that was before I spent years in the company of a boy who
carries around roses and flourishes them at the slightest opportunity.
He treats those flowers as if they were some magical defence against
the violence and failure of our everyday life. Roses, always roses.
Unrequited love is such a bore.
I tell myself firmly it's not from him, even as my heart hurts instead
of beating. But you know, Valentine's Day is the kind of thing he
would go for. He's the kind of boy who swoons over fluffy teddy bears
and red satin hearts, who loves pink and glitter and, of course,
always roses.
In other words, he's not the kind of boy who sends a *girl* a
Valentine's Day card. Not without a cute disclaimer, "To My Best
Friend," anyway.
If he ever sends me one of those, I'm feeding him to the Boss'
Persian. In small pieces.
It's not my fault I can't face up to reality. If I could, I would have
given up on Tea Rocket and that sadistic Pikachu years ago, and maybe
I'd be settling down to a real bed tonight, instead of a bunk in
another freezing cabin "hideaway."
Stop procrastinating, girl. Open it, already.
I could tell myself it's his handwriting, of course, but I know his as
well as my own. As well as I know yours.
No message other than the printed greeting on the front. After all, it
must have cost you bitterly enough to send something as girlie as this
card, personal sentiment is too much to ask on top of that gesture.
There's nothing but a place, and a time.
I'm not going to go.
Fuck.
Of course, that's probably the idea.
* * * *
You laughed triumphantly when you saw me, those violet eyes glinting,
but at least you had the grace not to say anything, or I would have
had to throw a tantrum and leave. And I wouldn't be in your arms now,
licking the fragrant valley between your breasts, fingers buried deep
in you, drowning myself in the soft femininity of you. Familiar,
addictive? not him.
I always come back to you, don't I, my dear? The only difference is
that I don't stay anymore. I go back to him and the pleasures of
chaste friendship.
As my caress falters, you grasp me by the hair, haul my face up and
bring it close to yours. Angry suddenly, my finger work harder and
deeper.
Arrogant bitch? You're still smiling, brittle and nasty, into my face,
even as you shake with orgasm. Do you realize that your eyes are
almost exactly like his, only purple rather than green? But his eyes
are never hard, like this, triumphant like this?
Or glazed with lust when they look at me, like this. Maybe I should
take what I can get.
I let my fingers slip from you. "Happy Valentine's Day, Cassidy.
Thanks for the card."
You take my hand and suck, almost meditatively. It's all wrong that
your mouth still feels so sweet. Your teeth scrape my skin and your
tongue strokes my palm, wet and faintly rough, like that of an
umbreon. Funny that you, of all people, should make me think of a
happiness evolution pokemon? I don't think you're even as happy as I
am, especially since Domino stole your place as the Boss' little pet.
But you make me think of an umbreon, despite your flaxen hair.
Sinuous and sleek in those black uniforms you wear, your soul just as
dark as the umbreon's class.
You and I, Cassidy, are both Dark types. But James is of the sunshine,
and not really for me.
"Anytime, Jesse. I know what a romantic you are." You pull me close,
almost as if we were really lovers, instead of enemies who
occasionally fuck each other. "Next year," you add thoughtfully, "I'll
send you a dozen roses."
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