Rosie Coloured Glasses. Brianna Wolfson

And then Rosie put on The Twilight Zone episode she had recorded and her children sank into her.

       9

      Twelve Years Ago

      Rex impressed Rosie that fall in Manhattan. He did it with his firmness. Because in every interaction, big or small, meaningful or trite, Rex was firm. And Rosie admired his commitment to it.

      Rex was stubborn and he grumbled and stomped his feet even when he just meant to walk. And he was easily agitated. By a taxi driver taking a questionably efficient route or someone blocking the entrance of the subway. By the checkout lady at the grocery store taking more than one try to slide a quarter out of the register. By long lines and oversalted soup. And whenever Rex was agitated, he made it known. He would huff and tap his foot and tense his shoulders. He would chomp down on his Bubblicious gum so hard his temples flared. He would jut his lower jaw out to expose his crooked bottom teeth. And although all of these things were unpleasant, Rosie loved how people responded to Rex. She loved that baristas made his coffee with exactly the right amount of milk. That barbers never left a piece of hair out of line. That waiters never made him wait too long for his dinner. That Rex got everything he wanted from his world by the force of his will. Rosie admired his high expectations for his world and those around him. She liked how he pressed firmly through the day. She liked that if you were on Rex’s side, mountains would be moved for you.

      Rex emitted strength and Rosie liked nuzzling up next to it. She was flattered at the idea that someone like Rex might want to take care of someone like her. But most of all, she liked being taken care of.

      She felt a change within herself. She had never found stability interesting before. She used to pick up books and put them down. Eat a few bites of a sandwich, and then forget about it. Talk briefly and intimately with a stranger she knew she would never see again. She took up odd jobs, and then quit them without warning.

      But with Rex, she craved his steady presence. She felt a visceral urge to pull him in so close and never let go. She loved the feeling of safety when Rex was around. She loved his strong back and arms. His tough eyes that turned so loving when they got into bed. Not all women, not all people, could put up with Rex, but Rosie liked that she was strong enough, perhaps even aloof enough, to handle this caliber of man.

      By Rosie’s definition of love, she loved Rex very much. And while she desperately hoped she could stay still enough to find a great, enduring love with this man, she knew in her bones that it could never be. She knew in her bones that one day she would want to twirl her way into a whole new orbit. That this love was most likely the transient kind.

      She wondered, but doubted, if Rex would be willing to come on her life’s adventures with her. She wondered what she might say or do to try to convince him.

      For now, however, Rosie would sink into her love with a man who was the opposite of everything she was.

      * * *

      Rosie entranced Rex that fall in Manhattan. She did it with her funkiness. Because in every interaction, big or small, meaningful or trite, Rosie was funky. And Rex admired the magic in that.

      Rosie never matched her socks or cleaned the windows in her apartment. She ate pizza for breakfast and fell asleep in the middle of movies. She would casually put on a white T-shirt but cut off the sleeves or bedazzle the cuff before leaving the apartment. She refused to set an alarm, or the microwave timer, or the volume on the television to an even number. She was distracted by graffiti and never exited a subway car without saying goodbye to the person standing next to her. She waved and smiled as she did so even if they hadn’t exchanged a single word or glance.

      Rosie had a simple laugh and she was quick to it. She never wanted to make anyone work too hard for it. She always had a dozen things in her bag she would have trouble keeping track of. And she would dig through her tote for her wallet to no avail to find her sunglasses already on her head, a pen already in her mouth, or the book tucked precariously under her arm.

      And although all of these things might seem bizarre to Rex, he loved how everything dazzled when Rosie was around. He loved the way that sullen man in the subway car would smile as the doors closed on Rosie’s waving hand. How she’d share a park bench with a homeless man without hesitation. How an old piece of chocolate dug up from the bottom of her purse still tasted delicious.

      Rex enjoyed getting into the crannies of the world with Rosie. He liked the sensation that the air was clearer and the sun was warmer when Rosie was near him. He felt a change within himself. He spent so much time glossing things up—his shoes, his résumé, his apartment—that he didn’t know until he met Rosie that things could be so beautiful, so raw. He felt overwhelmed with desire to see things through Rosie’s eyes. To explore all the tiny, forgotten corners of the universe with her next to him. Guiding him.

      He loved the feeling of ease when Rosie was close by. The feeling that the next adventure, the next thing of beauty, was right around the corner.

      Not all men, not all people, could put up with Rosie, but Rex liked that he was curious enough, perhaps even aloof enough, to handle this peculiar type of woman.

      By Rex’s definition of love, he loved Rosie very much. And while he desperately hoped he could remain engaged enough to find an all-encompassing, enduring love with this woman, he knew in his heart that it could never be. He knew in his heart that, one day, he would want to be still again. That this love was mortal.

      He wondered, but doubted, if Rosie would ever sit calmly next to him in bed on a Sunday morning. He wondered what he might have to say or do to stay true to himself.

      For now, however, Rex would sink into this love with a woman who was the opposite of everything he was.

       10

      Willow found it peculiar when she came home from school and found her father in jeans and a T-shirt waiting on the front steps. He was usually locked away in his office with all of his buttons still buttoned and his tie still tied at his neck.

      There were two brand-new bikes leaning next to Rex on the front steps. Asher hopped on the silver-and-blue bike immediately and zoomed away on his new toy, training wheels included. Willow assumed that the purple one was intended for her, but was unnerved to see that it didn’t have any training wheels.

      “Hop on, Willow,” Rex said. “Want me to teach you how to ride this thing?”

      Dad always asked questions that had an answer he wanted and an answer he didn’t want. Are your teeth brushed? Are the dishes clean? Did you finish your homework? But Willow found herself delighted that Dad wanted her to say yes to this. She was happy to spend some time together. She was happy her father wanted to spend some time together too. She was happy that she would be a girl who learned how to ride a bike from her father. She was happy that she would be a girl with a father who taught her how to ride a bike.

      She was happy at the vision of her future self, zipping down the street on that purple bike.

      She wondered how long it would take to bike to Mom’s.

      “Sure,” Willow responded shakily to her dad.

      Rex held up a helmet and some knee pads and wrist guards. And Willow put them on and pulled the Velcro extra tight on each piece of protective gear. She saved the helmet for last, but her hands were too encumbered by the plastic protrusions of the wrist guards to properly pull the chin strap. She tried a few times, wrist guard clicking against the base of the helmet until Rex noticed what was happening and gave a hearty chuckle.

      A chuckle.

      Willow smiled sweetly at the sound of that rare noise escaping her father’s mouth. And then she felt her heart speed up and her cheeks tingle as her father bent down in front of her and pulled on her chin strap until her helmet was just the right amount of tight. It was the closest her father’s face had ever been to hers as Willow could remember it.