4/10/11

Rosaline
By Cecilia Ryan


Just like any other Saturday morning, Dan found himself spending this one on Rosaline's couch, watching her clean the fish tank and being educated on the care and feeding of tropical fish. If it had been anyone but Rosaline, he would have zoned out a long time ago, but she was so enthusiastic about it that it was hard not to listen to her. This week, the ins and outs of guppy breeding were the topic of the lecture.


Dan chewed thoughtfully on stone-cold toast while this was going on, his thoughts drifting away from baby fish and heading towards the soft curls at Rosaline's neck that had escaped her Serious ponytail. She was nearly finished by now, and starting to get just a little tired – he'd offered, as he did every week, to clean the tank for her, but he was never allowed to. He supposed it was like offering to walk someone else's dog for them.


Finally, the bits and pieces were being packed away, and Rosaline was heading to the utility room to wash out the buckets and clean her hands. She'd come back dressed in something other than one of his shirts, and their Saturday would continue as it always did. Dan settled back into the couch and closed his eyes, the warmth of the day proving to be the perfect sedative. He couldn't see either of them getting much done today.


Behind his eyelids was Rosaline, as she so often was these days. He knew that somewhere along the way, his thoughts towards his best friend had turned in the direction of the decidedly more-than-platonic. He'd never had any luck with women, except this one. And, well, who could blame him for wanting her? She was gorgeous, fun, and easy to get along with. They'd known each other forever, all most.


Her smiles had gone from being something he returned easily to something that made his fingertips tingle and his stomach tighten just a little whenever he earned one. He found himself going out of his way to make her laugh, and instead of laughing with her, he just watched and took her in. Last week, they'd spent their Saturday – 'their' day now, when they couldn't spend almost all their time together – at the beach, and at the time he might have been joking when he'd called her a mermaid, but the idea suited her well. She'd probably love to live in the ocean with all of the fish there.


And of course, she'd be perfect. The envy of all the other mermaids, with the prettiest tail, and hair that didn't seem to mind salt water. Dan smiled wistfully to himself, the only problem with the image being that he'd still be stuck on land, and he'd miss her too much if that happened.


A roughly Rosaline-shaped figure decided on that moment to perch itself in his lap, breaking the fantasy in favour of a much more real but definitely more complicated reality. He opened his eyes and smiled at her, reaching up to pull the tie out of her hair to make it fall in the waves he was more used to seeing. There was no thought involved in stroking her hair just a few times, and she seemed to think nothing of it. Instead, she shifted to lean against him and rested her head on his chest.


“Not in the mood to do much today?” She looked up at him with huge, pretty eyes. He couldn't help but smile just a little more broadly at that – which helped to stifle the impulse to lean down and kiss her, at least.


“If you're happy just sitting here, I'm happy to let you,” he traced a gentle circle over her shoulder with a fingertip. The skin was soft, and from this close he could smell floral shampoo, light perfume, and the faintest scent of coconut, probably from one of the mysterious things that women used and men didn't. She was hardly any weight at all, despite all of it resting on him at the moment. He remembered fixing a bracelet around her wrist once and marvelling at how delicate it was. It was so easy to care for this woman, who always looked like she was going to break in a good breeze, but never did even when she got a hard knock.


“Hmm,” she agreed, “you're comfy.” A small, delicate nose poked Dan in the shoulder when Rosaline settled herself comfortably, but he couldn't bring himself to mind. If she was happy, he was, and for the moment that was all he wanted.


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Cecilia Ryan produces such volumes of work that some of it must be all right. She's fond of the 'monkeys at typewriters' school of literary thought.