Antilove

Sei

***

ROSE WAKES UP A few hours before her event. She's sunken in the couch, throat parched and hands around the fleece blanket she keeps there. Josh has disappeared and Rose adds this to the list of reasons why they aren't friends.

    A sudden pang hits her heart. It could be the way her floor-to-window sliding doors next to the living room emits a soft glow, or the way the volume of the television is turned down low, or maybe even the scent of the jasmine candle she lit earlier. There's absolutely nothing like an afternoon nap to have her feeling like she's living in her existential crisis.

    After blowing out her candle, Rose hears music coming from the halls and so, she attacks.

    "We're leaving in two," she tells Lucien.

    "Minutes?"

    "Hours."

    Very much like his roommate, he has headphones in and is lounging on his bed, looking at nothing, doing nothing.

    "Is this you cashing in my I-owe-you?" he asks.

    "You really don't have a personality, do you?" Rose says.

    "Rosie, if you knew my dad, you'd understand."

    "I'm still getting," she leans in, "paid. So."

    She leaves once she sees him get up from the corner of her eye and goes to get showered. The material of her pantsuit clings onto her skin and she adjusts her bra carefully so that nothing peeks out of the un-conservative cut down the front.

    "You look very...glowy," Lucien says when he sees her.

    "And you look very devilish," she replies.

    In the dim lighting, he does, with shadows casting over his sharp profile and only half of his catty green eye illuminated. His hair is styled in tumultuous waves atop his head and curls around his ears adding a boyish charm Rose has yet to uncover and he sits lazily, fitted dress pants riding up his ankle when he shifts. The only other thing he's wearing is a white dress shirt—no tie.

    "My car came today," he says.

    Rose raises an eyebrow, as she packs her phone and keys into a clutch.

    "Let me guess. Imported engine, convertible, and high maintenance?"

    "Ding ding ding."

    He has an insufferable grin on his face.

    This is how he has her sitting at the edge of his leather car seat, guarding him from putting the top down, for fear of messing her hair. They're racing to their destination, as if with the blessed appearance of his car, the highways have been unclogged, destined for wild souls like them to have the top down and to have their efforts be untangled by the wind. Another night might do just fine, Rose muses, as she sees the streetlights blur the stars.

***

LIFE OF THE PARTY; light of their souls. Lucien Serafino's name has been heard before. Through what industry, no one knows but they know him, they insist, as they swarm to him. The thing that irks Rose is that they probably think it's his face. It morphs itself into something they swear they've seen, until it has them spilling their secrets at his feet.

    Rose refuses to think it's jealousy but can't help looking at him every once in a while, over her shoulder, as she talks to photographers in front of the portraits. It's a black and white shoot, model gleaming in oil and hair slicked back. She barks out a laugh at one of the backstories ("How did you get this shot?") and catches Lucien's eyes. They're almost indecipherable in the ambient lighting but she puts dull emeralds in their place as he raises the champagne flute to his lips again.