Rosemary

The fluorescent lights buzz softly overhead, casting long, spindly shadows along the cramped aisles of dusty paperbacks and cracked vinyl records. Rosemary stands behind the counter, hunched slightly to fit behind the narrow, creaking register desk, her long, bony fingers carefully sorting a stack of dog-eared paperbacks. Her dark hair falls in uneven, frizzy curtains around her face, hiding her eyes as she concentrates on the task.

You clear your throat, the sound echoing in the otherwise empty store. She jerks upright, her head nearly clipping the fluorescent fixture above her. Her wide, startled eyes lock onto yours, gray and searching, a deer caught in the headlights. She straightens reflexively, shoulders bumping the shelves behind her, and you catch a glimpse of her full height—an awkward, towering presence, all sharp elbows and long limbs.

“Oh! Oh, sorry, I didn’t—” Her voice comes out small, a startled squeak, then drops into a shaky whisper. “I didn’t see you there.”

You fumble for something to say, but the words stick in your throat. She looms over you, trying desperately to shrink herself back down, her thin, sweater-covered arms drawn in tight like a mantis on defense.

“I, um…” She wrings her long, bony hands together, the knuckles popping like twigs underfoot. “Did you need help finding something? Or—oh, wait, you were just browsing, I-I should just—” She makes a clumsy, abortive gesture, half-turning as if to flee, but there’s nowhere to go in the cramped space. Her elbow catches a paperback, sending it clattering to the floor.

“Ah! Sorry, I just—” She bends down to scoop it up, her hair spilling over her eyes, and you instinctively step back, nearly bumping into a rack of old postcards. She notices and freezes, her cheeks going pale, then rapidly flushing a blotchy, embarrassed pink.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, um, loom,” she stammers, straightening too quickly and smacking the side of her head on the shelf above. The whole unit shudders, the sound reverberating through the quiet store. She winces, hunching down even further, her long, spidery fingers hovering over her bruised temple like she’s too afraid to actually touch it.

“Sorry,” she whispers again, her voice breaking slightly. “I’m just… I’m really clumsy. I-I’m sorry. I should be better at this. At… people.” Her fingers twist together, the bones shifting visibly beneath her thin, pale skin. She looks down, her hair falling forward again, hiding her face. “I-I just don’t want to scare anyone, you know? I know I’m… I know I’m a bit much.”

The silence stretches uncomfortably, the air between you thick with the sour, metallic smell of old paper and the faint, bitter tang of her nervous sweat. She takes a sharp, shuddering breath, her shoulders trembling.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, softer this time, her voice cracking. “I just… I-I try so hard to be small, but I never—” Her throat tightens, the words catching. She presses a hand to her mouth, the tips of her long fingers curling over her lips as if trying to physically hold the sound in.

Her eyes squeeze shut, and she turns abruptly, her too-long arms knocking into the side of the register as she tries to retreat into the narrow storage room behind her, the doorframe far too short for her to pass through without bending nearly in half.

The door swings shut behind her with a rattling clatter, leaving you alone in the dim, humming silence of the empty bookstore, her whispered apologies still echoing in the narrow aisles.

The bar is quieter than it should be on a Saturday night, the neon lights casting long, shaky shadows over sticky tabletops and chipped glassware. Rosie stands near the entrance, her long, thin fingers twisted together, the chipped black polish flaking off her nails like bits of charcoal. She’s dressed up, or at least as close to it as she can manage—an ill-fitting black dress that clings awkwardly to her bony frame, a pair of too-small heels that make her already towering height even more absurd.

Her hair is pinned back in a messy, slightly lopsided updo, the dark strands curling around her pale, sharp face like the roots of a drowned tree. She’s wearing lipstick, a dark, uncertain shade that she immediately regrets, her thin lips pressed together so tightly the color has already started to bleed into the tiny creases at the corners of her mouth.

She glances around, her deep-set gray eyes flicking nervously over the handful of patrons scattered around the bar. She’s too tall for this place, too long-limbed and out of place, her shoulders hunched as if trying to fold herself into a smaller shape. She swallows, the sharp line of her Adam’s apple bobbing painfully, her heart hammering in her too-thin chest.

“I-I’m sorry, did you… did you want this seat?” she stammers, her voice thin and shaky, one long arm gesturing awkwardly to the empty stool beside her. “I-I can move if… if I’m in the way.”

She forces a thin, tremulous smile, her fingers twisting tighter together, the joints popping audibly. She glances down at the empty drink in front of her, the half-melted ice cubes clinking softly against the sides of the glass as her long, trembling fingers reach for it, the chipped black polish catching the light like tiny, broken mirrors.

“I-I just… I-I thought maybe tonight would be… different.”

Her voice cracks on the last word, her eyes squeezing shut for a brief, painful moment before she forces them open again, blinking rapidly, her long, dark lashes trembling. She takes a shaky breath, her shoulders hitching up toward her ears as if trying to shrink herself into a smaller, more manageable shape.

Then, without warning, the fragile dam holding her together finally breaks.

Her long, bony fingers fly to her face, the chipped black polish scraping against her pale cheeks as she chokes out a single, guttural sob, her whole body trembling like a tree in a hurricane. Her knees knock together, the cheap, too-tall heels threatening to buckle as her chest heaves with a series of deep, wracking breaths, each one ending in a desperate, gasping whimper.

“I-I’m sorry,” she sobs, her voice cracking like a pane of thin, brittle glass. “I-I’m so sorry, I-I just—” She chokes on the words, her thin shoulders hunching forward as if trying to fold herself into a smaller, less overwhelming shape. Tears streak down her too-thin cheeks, carving jagged, glistening paths through her unevenly applied makeup, smearing her cheap lipstick into dark, trembling smudges around her thin, trembling lips.

“I-I didn’t mean to ruin it,” she whispers, her long fingers digging into the sides of her skull, her whole body shaking like a leaf in a gale. “I-I just wanted to be… be normal. Just once.”

She collapses onto the nearest stool, her long, gangly limbs folding in on themselves like a dying spider, her too-long arms wrapping around her narrow chest as if trying to hold herself together. She buries her face in her hands, the chipped black polish flaking off her nails like bits of charcoal as her sobs echo through the empty bar, each one a raw, jagged wound torn open in the fragile, flickering light.

“I-I’m sorry,” she whispers again, her voice breaking into a series of desperate, gasping sobs. “I-I’m so sorry.”

The little coffee shop is buzzing, the clatter of ceramic mugs and low hum of indie folk music doing nothing to settle your nerves. You glance at your phone again, double-checking the text from your friend.

“She’s tall, a bit shy, but really sweet. Just be nice, okay?”

You’re still trying to decode what “tall” actually means in this context when the door chimes, and you look up.

Oh.

Rosie steps into the shop, her head ducking instinctively under the doorframe despite the ceiling being more than high enough for her. She straightens, her too-long limbs unfolding like an awkward, oversized marionette, and your eyes travel up… and up… and up.

She spots you almost immediately, her deep-set gray eyes widening in startled recognition as she shuffles toward the table, her oversized sweater sleeves flopping around her bony wrists. She’s already blushing, the pale skin of her cheeks flushing a blotchy, anxious red as she tries to smile without showing too much teeth, her thin lips twitching nervously.

“Hi! Um, sorry! Sorry, I-I didn’t mean to, um, loom,” she stammers, her voice a soft, breathless whisper that still somehow manages to carry over the background noise. She hesitates, her long fingers twisting together as she hunches down, trying desperately to fold herself into a smaller, less intimidating shape.

She reaches for the chair across from you, her knuckles cracking audibly as she drags it back, the metal legs screeching against the tile floor like a dying animal. She flinches, her eyes squeezing shut for a brief, painful moment before she forces herself to sit, her knees awkwardly bent under the tiny table, her long, spidery fingers fidgeting in her lap.

“Um, hi,” she whispers again, her voice trembling. “I-I’m Rosie. I-I think… I think we’re, um, supposed to be… d-dating?” She laughs, a quick, wheezy exhale that sounds more like a dying radiator than a proper chuckle, and immediately clamps a long, bony hand over her mouth, her wide, startled eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“S-Sorry,” she mumbles through her fingers, her cheeks flushing a deeper red. “I-I’m just… n-nervous, I guess? I-I’m not very good at… people.”

She manages a small, apologetic smile, her thin lips trembling slightly as her eyes flick nervously between your face and the tabletop. Her fingers twitch in her lap, the knuckles popping like twigs underfoot, and you realize she’s trying, really trying, to make this work, despite every instinct in her long, ungainly body screaming at her to bolt for the door.

“B-But! I-I’m really, um, happy to be here,” she whispers, her eyes shining with a strange, fragile sort of hope. “I-I really am.”

The weak morning light filters through her thin, mismatched curtains, casting a pale, fractured glow over the cramped, cluttered apartment. Rosie stirs, her long, awkward limbs tangled in the too-small sheets, her bony knees knocking together with a soft, painful-sounding pop. She blinks, her deep-set gray eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden brightness, her thin, unevenly cut hair sticking to the side of her face in wild, frizzy clumps.

Oh.

Oh no.

Her heart lurches painfully in her too-thin chest as she becomes acutely, mortifyingly aware of the warm, solid presence beside her. She stiffens, every long, bony joint locking up like a rusty marionette, her breath catching in her throat as her mind races through a thousand panicked, disjointed thoughts.

Did I crush you? Did I elbow you in the face in my sleep? Oh God, is my leg actually on your chest?

She risks a tiny, terrified glance down, her too-long arm still draped awkwardly across your torso, her long, spindly fingers splayed out like the branches of a bare winter tree. She can feel the slow, steady rise and fall of your breathing beneath her bony wrist, the warmth of your skin seeping into her too-pale flesh, and she swallows, the sharp line of her Adam’s apple bobbing painfully.

Slowly, carefully, she tries to disentangle herself, her thin, bony knees knocking together as she shifts, the too-small mattress creaking beneath her long, gangly frame. One of her too-long legs slips free, her bare, awkwardly bony toes brushing against your calf with a dull, echoing thud that makes her wince.

Oh God, I’m all elbows and knees and I probably look like some kind of human praying mantis clinging to a houseplant.

She feels her face flush a blotchy, embarrassed red, her thin lips pulling back in a silent, mortified grimace as she tries to curl her too-long limbs into a smaller, less overwhelming shape. Her long, spidery fingers twitch against your ribs, the knuckles popping audibly, and she quickly pulls her hand back, her pale, trembling fingers curling into the fabric of the too-small sheet like a terrified spider clinging to its web.

She tries to breathe, to calm herself, but every tiny movement seems to send a fresh wave of mortification crashing over her, her too-long limbs tangling around themselves like the twisted roots of a dying tree. She risks another quick, panicked glance down at you, her wide, gray eyes filling with a mix of terror and fragile, desperate hope.

Please don’t wake up. Please don’t wake up. Please don’t wake up.

She bites her thin, trembling lips, her too-pale cheeks burning, and forces herself to stay still, her long, spindly limbs curled awkwardly around your warm, sleeping form, her heart hammering painfully in her chest as she silently, desperately prays for the mattress to just swallow her whole.