It

  was   on   the   sun-­‐drenched   coast   that   it   happened;   sitting   on   the   boardwalk   and  
watching  the  grey  waves  roll  in  without  aim.  The  sky  was  darkening,  and  Rose  picked  
up   her   heels   and   walked   back   to   the   little   town,   one   foot   in   front   of   the   other,   balancing  
carefully   with   the   dizziness   of   the   heat   still   pulsing   through   her   veins.   It   was   in   this  
delirious   state,   half-­‐conscious,   half-­‐asleep,   that   she   saw   her,   walking   in   the   other  
direction.  
 
Rose   meant   to   walk   straight   past.   But   the   air   shimmered   with   humidity,   and   she   was  
tired   and   sleepy,   and   what   she   meant   to   do   and   what   she   did   ended   up   being   at   odds  
with  each  other.  Her  words  came  out  tangled,  confused  and  fell  on  top  of  each  other.  She  
could  see  them  in  a  heap  in  front  of  her,  wriggling  a  little,  faint  tendrils  in  the  sunlight.    
 
“Oh,  sorry,  didn’t  mean  to  walk  into  you,  right  into  you,  I  didn’t  see  you  there”  –  which  
was  a  complete  lie,  of  course.  She  felt  her  fingers  tremble,  as  if  she  was  being  irresistibly  
drawn   towards   the   other   woman,   as   if   something   was   compelling   her.   Rose   reached   for  
her   words,   tried   to   order   them   into   a   sentence,   by   they   were   slippery   as   a   fish   and  
eluded  her.  
 
The   woman’s   name   was   Michelle,   and   when   she   spoke   each   word   rose   and   fell   with   a  
gentle  cadence.  Rose  drowned  in  the  soft  curls  of  her  voice,  feeling  the  vowels  reach  out  
to  her.  Rose  reached  back.  
 
Michelle’s  hair  was  scarlet,  a  vivid  streak  of  colour  against  the  skies.  It  was  like  a  fire,  
not   the   tame   flame   of   a   candle,   but   a   fire   that   raged   through   the   forests,   that   made   Rose  
want   to   reach   out   and   feel   its   heat   for   herself.   Rose   had   known   many   shades   of   red  
through   her   life,   but   this   was   the   first   to   make   her   burn.   She   had   known   cold   reds,   a  
sinister  colour,  akin  to  dried  blood,  but  never  this  before.    
 
The   carpet   of   the   aisle   where   Rose   was   married   had   been   a   cold   red.   She   could  
remember  the  stained  glass  window,  how  the  sunlight  cast  its  colours  across  the  church.  
She   had   stepped   through   it,   watched   her   dress   briefly   light   up   with   the   scene   of   St  
Joseph’s  dream.  Red,  across  the  aisle,  and  the  red  of  the  angel’s  hair  across  her  dress,  yet  
all  she  had  felt  was  a  winter  chill,  seeping  through  the  fine  layers  of  her  dress,  a  touch  of  
ice  across  the  delicate  lines  of  her  veil.    
 
The  wind  picked  up  across  the  sea,  and  it  was  a  true  cold  now,  across  her  arms,  through  
her   fingers.   It   woke   her   up,   returned   her   to   the   present,   slammed   her   down   feet   first  
and  head  spinning,  and  for  a  second,  she  could  not  reconcile  the  past  and  present,  could  
not  figure  out  where  she  was.  Rose  turned,  searched  for  an  anchor,  something  to  hold  
on.  She  found  the  scarlet  of  Michelle’s  hair,  its  warmth.    
 
They   walked   across   the   boardwalk,   just   the   two   of   them,   trading   small   pieces   of  
conversation.   Rose   looked   at   Michelle,   memorized   the   constellation   of   freckles   across  
her   cheekbones.   It   was   strange,   to   feel   so   alight,   she   thought,   strange   to   feel   desire   so  
silent   and   yet   so   fierce.   It   was   terrifying,   it   felt   like   standing   on   the   edge   of   the  
boardwalk,  about  to  unbalance  at  any  moment.  
 
It   started   to   rain.   They   walked   back   together.   Rose   walked   ahead,   steps   slightly   too   fast,  
and  suddenly,  the  fear  was  there  again,  shadowed  at  her  feet.  She  walked  faster,  faster  
as  if  she  could  outpace  it;  this  new  knowledge  that  had  unveiled  itself,  this  new  desire  
for  someone  so  unattainable.  She  took  one  last  look  at  Michelle,  promised  her  that  they  
would  meet  again,  but  as  she  was  walking  away,  Rose  knew  she  was  leaving  her  behind,  
the  allure,  the  fear,  all  of  it.  She  felt  the  warmth  of  her  ring  on  her  finger  instead.  
 
Rose  could  no  longer  see  Michelle,  had  left  her  behind,  and  she  felt  unanchored  again,  
her   veins   pulsing   with   helium   instead   of   blood   until   her   feet   were   only   skimming   the  
streets   and   her   fingers   clutched   to   return   to   earth   again.   She   closed   her   eyes   and   her  
mind   swam   with   memories,   of   her   wedding   day,   of   the   first   time   he   had   put   the   ring  
onto  her  finger.  For  a  second,  it  hadn’t  fit,  and  she  had  felt  a  wash  of  panic  set  into  her,  
until  it  had  eventually  slipped  over  her  knuckle,  cold  and  alien.  Everything  had  been  so  
cold,  her  feet  in  the  heels,  the  dress  that  was  too  stiffly  boned  and  pressed  into  her  flesh  
as  she  sat  down,  another  rib  cage  –  externalized,  an  exo-­‐skeleton  that  damaged,  rather  
than  protected,  the  soft  organism  within.  She  had  wanted  to  be  happy,  she  had  wanted  
to   laugh   and   spin   until   she   was   dizzy,   to   rest   her   head,   and   feel   the   true   warmth   of  
contentment.  Rose  had  wanted  it  so  badly.  
  
She  reached  the  lane  into  her  house,  and  it  was  still  raining.  She  was  soaked  to  her  skin,  
but  she  could  still  feel  the  silent  fire  within  her  that  Michelle  had  lit.  And  it  terrified  her,  
that   she   hardly   knew   this   woman,   didn’t   know   anything   except   the   curve   of   her   smile  
and  the  pattern  of  her  laughter,  yet  Michelle  had  such  a  hold  over  her.  It  wasn’t  right.  
 
She  walked  to  her  front  door.  There  was  a  mark  on  the  wood,  where  her  husband  had  
accidentally  burst  a  light  bulb.  It  had  shattered,  the  glowing  filament  burning  the  paint.  
They   had   laughed.   Rose   smiled   at   the   memory,   held   onto   it   and   let   it   fill   her.   Let   it  
extinguish  Michelle,  the  new  sense  of  disquiet  that  whispered  inside  of  her.  
 
The  fire  was  gone.  She  could  feel  the  cold  now,  and  her  fingers  were  shaking.  The  whole  
day,  Michelle,  it  was  all  an  accident,  it  never  was  meant  to  happen,  never  should  have  
happened.  Rose  looked  down,  buried  the  memories,  let  them  fall  under  layers  of  shadow  
until  light  could  no  longer  reach  them.  She  imagined  a  great  flood  of  water,  so  vast  that  
no  fire  could  survive  its  power,  saw  the  image  of  Michelle,  blurred  beneath  the  depths  of  
an   ocean,   obscured   by   fleets   of   fish   and   long   tangled   weeds.   It   was   never   meant   to  
happen.  It  was  better,  she  decided,  better  if  perhaps  it  never  did.