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.
