“Wrong place, wrong time.”
A deafening silence held us together, a void we both knew too well. Grief bore its way into me, anchoring itself within and restraining me, making my strides forward more difficult. She carried that same weight, a weight that often gave way to sorrow. It lived in your heart, sometimes bleeding out for others to see. I thought I’d sensed it within her before, but I wasn’t sure.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
My words pulled her back to me, and she gave me a brief smile. It was one of those sad smiles people give when they’re not okay, but they want people to believe they’re strong.
“Don’t be. Our sadness won’t bring them back. But our strength can protect their legacies.”
Perhaps she was right, but I didn’t know what strength to draw on. The pretense of strength was not the same as real strength. I knew because we were the same. I wanted to be strong for my mom because that was what she’d wanted for me. I would carry that will in her stead—to not be powerless.
Roslyn leaned over, reached under her bed and retrieved a bottle of wine. She twisted a corkscrew and yanked the cork out before taking a long drink and offering me the bottle.
I laughed and snatched it from her hand, copying her with a long swig. It was fruity and burned all the way down. She giggled in an innocent chime that made me give her a crazed look at the sound.
“Want to play a game?” she asked, a mischievous look on her face.
I raised an eyebrow. “Of course.”
“Okay, the topic is: words that describe Melanie,” she said. “I’ll go first, starting with ‘A’. Appalling.”
She gave me a severe look, to which I barely restrained my laughter.
“Wait, you have to give me another drink of that wine before you make me say it,” I said.
Roslyn giggled and passed it to me; a grin stretched across her lips. I took another drink.
I pursed my lips, taking a breath before spluttering out, “Bitch!”
We both roared with laughter as Roslyn feigned disgust, wiping off the wine I spat all over the place.
“Why, I would never have thought such a thing about our dear roommate,” she mocked, “Oh, is it my turn—creepy-eyed.”
I buried my face in the pillow before coming up for air. “I would give my left arm to see you say that to her face.”
Roslyn took another drink and made to stand up.
“No!” I cried, grabbing her arm, but I was laughing too hard to stop her.
She opened her door and disappeared for a second before returning with a perturbed expression.
“She’s not here,” she said, snapping the door shut behind her.
“Ugh,” I complained, shaking my head, “what a donkey hole.”
Roslyn paused. “Wait, what is a donkey?”
“Seriously? You don’t know what a donkey is?” I asked, trying to decipher if she was kidding or not.
Roslyn kept moving about, idly strumming the strings of her harp as she passed it before moving on to her bookshelf.
“Is it some kind of de-locking device?” she asked.
I watched her incredulously as she picked up various books, flipped through them, and put them back.
“Where did you say you were from again?” I asked.
“Oh!” she said. “I see. It’s like a horse, but it is smaller!”
