Rose

Most people in this world don't live up to their names. Other than me, I have only seen her, ever so vividly, live up to her name. Rose.

That's her name. And just like how real mature roses hold their glorious color for their first few days after being plucked, she was in her most flourishing stage in her twenties.

She and I were mere classmates until we weren't. We were getting our master's. One fateful day, our professor was dissecting a tiger prawn to show us its nervous system, excretory gland, digestive system, and tissues. Being slightly taller than most girls in my class and having the burden of being the kindest of all, I stood at the back. There were occasions when I could not see the professor's forceps piercing or tearing a part of the deceased organism, so on the spur of the moment, I got on my tip toes to look over someone's shoulder. My balance was off by a millimeter when my hand found someone's delicate, standing before me. More than my safety, I instinctively apologized for holding onto her. She turned to me with a bright smile. She looked taken aback as well, but she smiled. I smiled back, swallowing my further apology.

Then her hand found mine and placed it around her waist. I gave a startle, but as harmless skin-ship was common among girls in our class, I went with her flow.

I had known her since the orientation day. She sat in the seat before me in the auditorium. When she introduced herself, she turned to the audience, and I saw her pink cheeks. I thought she was embarrassed, but ever since then, I have never seen that pink wear off. It wasn't makeup, which I confirmed one hot afternoon when she rubbed her face with her kerchief to wipe off her sweat. Also, it wasn't a superficial vibrant pink, it was a deep purple-ish humanly pink, like how one gets after being slapped. Her name began to make sense to me.

That fateful day, the dissection went on with my arms around her waist, feeling the thick cotton of her lab coat and her delicate, sweat-soaked fingers intertwined with mine.

As we all returned to our workbenches to begin our dissection, I took my excuse to use the washroom.

I walk through the unnecessarily heavy doors of our girls' washroom, which springs back in its place with a dull noise. I washed my face with a very empty mind. The heavy door creaked and returned to its place with the same dull thud, but this time, I heard its latch. I splashed my face with water for the third time, and before I could look up, I felt those same delicate hands on my back. I froze as she pulled on the hook and eye closer to my bra, and suddenly flicked it. My back felt a gentle sting. It could have been a malicious pain, but I felt a harmless sting that created a ripple of warmth through my chest.

I finally looked up. She stood there, looking at me.

I remember thinking, an awkward smile would be appropriate, but we were in a washroom. Also, she had closed the heavy door. I was alert. I was curious.

She took my wet cheeks in her palms before kissing me. She let me explore her body over her thick cotton lab coat. Her breasts felt dangerously soft, which made a chill run down my spine. Her waist was painfully dainty, my feminine hands mapping it whole at the back. Her rosy cheeks were burning for some reason. On that note, her whole body was warmer except her palms, which held my now dry cheeks throughout our time together.

She left the washroom first, and then I followed her out after splashing my face with water for the fourth time.

She went to her workbench, and I returned to mine. We both gutted our prawns while I ruptured mine's digestive tract.

~

A year after our graduation, I got a letter with a wedding invitation attached to it. I, of course, didn't attend.

~

Two years after that, I received a letter. It was an essay of random rambles, and at the end of it all, she mentioned she has a baby girl now. That had me pack my bag and ask my workplace for a three-day leave.

The first thing I saw about her was her ever-rosy cheeks. If she were a freshly plucked rose during our masters, now she appeared like a three-day-old rose, resting in a flower vase.

I met her husband for the first time. We shook hands, and I was quite impressed by his tactfulness and general respect for our privacy when he left us alone.

Rose took me to her bedroom even before she showed me the guest room. I saw the bed where she must have consummated, and beside it was a small cradle, and inside it, wrapped in a bundle, was a rosebud. At first, I thought the baby looked pink, but it was just my eyes.

"She's pretty," I breathed.

"You aren't lying. Are you?"

"No,"

We left the slumbering baby in her cradle and walked upstairs to the guest room. I placed my luggage at the foot of the double bed and took off my scarf. She wrapped her arms around my waist from behind and pressed her face to my shoulder blade. I felt like she needed that, so we stayed like that for a while. Eventually, I turned around and held her by her shoulders before pressing a kiss to her quivering lips. Her hands clutched the fabric of my shirt at my waist. Her bottom lip and top lip both felt equally plump and kissable.

She broke the kiss, "I'll get you something to drink,". She got me a glass of fresh watermelon juice. She allowed me an hour to freshen up before I was served a hot yet warm dinner. Her husband sat at the head of the table. We managed to hold some decent conversation while she sat nibbling on her food.

At ten past eleven, I heard her enter my room, the guest room designated as mine. She had her rosebud in her arms. She placed her on the left side of the bed and created a safe barricade at the edge using all the throw pillows on the bed, leaving behind the pillow that I rested my head on. Silently, she went to lock the door and came to lie in the middle of the bed. Her body immediately coiled towards me. I slipped my hand under her shoulder, and she came to rest her head on my shoulder.

I kissed her pink cheeks. They were just as warm as I remembered them on that fateful day when we were dissecting a prawn. But they weren't as pink. They were losing their color, like a real rose does after a day of neglect.

Her lips found mine as her fingers went to unbutton her blouse. I pulled her delicate body to me and kissed the peak of her shoulder and the hollow of her collarbone. It was scary how quiet we were. My hand went to her breasts, and my body shuddered just like it had on that fateful day. It was my first time seeing her breasts. I wondered what they must have looked like when the glands were immature inside her. I kissed the swell of her breasts. They were a little heavy, purple veins ran across them, and the nipples were dark and erect. When I held the underside of her swell, she leaked. I touched my tongue to her nipple and licked the tip. Her nectar was watery and sweet. I went up to kiss her lips before letting my hand hook under her knee, slipping down to her feet, and caressing her all the way up to her thighs.

Her skirt readily got bunched up at her waist, and I took off her panties.

She was glistening. I lapped on for a while before twisting two of my fingers inside her. She gasped, and her fingers went into my hair. Her body gave a modest and shy shudder after a while, and she urged me up. I caressed her face with my sticky fingers and held her tight.

Sometime at around three in the morning, her rosebud woke up with a cry that woke me up with a startle. She tore herself from me and sat on the bed, crossing her legs. She took her rosebud in her lap and soothed her. Her eyes were closed, and she looked very tired. Not sleepy. Like a ten-day-old preserved rose.

I visited her a couple more times in the last five years. My luggage was always accompanied by a gift for her growing rosebud. To my own surprise, I began calling her daughter Rosebud, and she loved that name. Even her husband did.

The last time I saw her was when Rosebud started Kindergarten. That year, she looked like a well-preserved rose that held its shape but had lost all its color.

Most people in this world don't hold up to their names. Other than me, I have only seen her, ever so vividly, live up to her name. Rose. My Rose.

A/N - Dedicated to the girl who flicked on my bra strap and took over my shower thoughts.