My name is of no importance.
Why? This is not a story about me. This is a story about Rosie.
You wanna know who Rosie is? Fair enough. That’s why we are here, you and me.
For real, you might ask. Or to me?
Is there a difference?
Don’t let us monkey around with such frivolities.
Rosie is the woman who made my life a life at all.
Rosie is the woman who made my life a living nightmare.
When we met we instantly knew that we were a match.
Back then you didn’t swipe to the right without looking to make a match.
You looked into someone’s eyes. Someone’s smile put a spell on you and you were lost.
That is how we felt about each other. We were lost.
Lost to the world we lived in until that moment.
Lost to our homes. Our friends. Our families.
Never have we felt so alive before.
We had a thirst that we could not deprive.
A thirst for each other.
Lust for each other.
One night she came to my place, wearing a short red dress.
I could see that she didn’t wear anything underneath.
“Come on”, she said. “Let’s go to Paris!”
We just took some money and the car.
I didn’t even think about it.
For the next couple of weeks our life was filled with three things:
Cheap wine, baguette and sex.
We didn’t care for the world around us.
Only Rosie mattered to me. I did everything for her.
Everything to please her, to satisfy her.
I would’ve killed for her, without hesitation.
It lasted about six months.
One night she kissed me and got out of our bed.
I tried to stop her, convince her to stay, begged her.
But it was all in vain.
She left as she came:
With her red dress and a smile on her lips.
She stopped at the door and said:
“I’m here to stay forever, but not today.”
I only saw her one last time.
The day she died.