Fragments

Roxanne

I took inspiration for this short story from a dream I had a few nights ago. I hope it's somewhat as interesting to read as it was to write.

The glow bled through the haze clinging to Roxanne's cigarette. She perched on a stool, crimson lipstick staining the rim of her glass, a bored amusement flickering in her eyes. I wasn't supposed to be here, in this dive bar on the wrong side of town, a world away from the polished sterility of my parents' galas. But Roxanne, with her untamed mane of raven hair and a laugh that could shatter glass, had a way of pulling you in.

The air thrummed with the bass of the live band, a melody that mirrored the frantic rhythm of my heart. Every stolen glance, every brush of her hand against mine sent a jolt through me. Roxanne was a hurricane, a kaleidoscope of contradictions – alluring and aloof, guarded yet strangely vulnerable. 

We talked, or rather, I did. About everything and nothing, trying to keep pace with the whirlwind that was Roxanne. She spoke in riddles, her past a mystery shrouded in cigarette smoke. There was a darkness in her eyes, a story etched in the lines around them that I yearned to unravel.

As the night wore on, the bar emptied, the music faded, leaving us in a comfortable silence. Roxanne leaned in, her voice a husky whisper, "Run away with me."

My heart hammered against my ribs. This wasn't the life I was supposed to lead. But in Roxanne's eyes, I saw a reflection of my own yearning for escape, a chance to rewrite the script. In that dimly lit bar, the future stretched out before me, uncertain yet exhilarating. I took a deep breath, the stale air thick with possibility.

"Where do we go?" I asked, my voice barely a murmur.

She smiled, a hint of mischief dancing in her eyes. "Anywhere but here," she said, taking my hand and leading me out into the cool night air. The world was waiting, and for the first time, I felt truly alive.