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Rosemary is Fat: Chapter Three

I hate the weather.

I honestly do.

Living in a coastal town right at the exit of the Gulf Stream at the site of an ancient meteor crash prepares you for the craziest weather you've ever seen. Most places you go, locals have the saying, "If you don't like the weather, wait ten minutes, it'll change," and then they smile toothless smiles and clap you on the back heartily. In these other locales, though, you usually expect it to be cold in the winter, hot in the summer, and relatively in between during the spring and fall. In Virginia Beach, the weather quite literally changes every ten minutes, throwing the general rules of meteorology the rest of the world abides to in the trash and laughing maniacally while it does so.

The day I had fallen through the floor had been sunny and seventy-two warm, warm degrees, despite it being mid-October. I had worn a sweater early in the morning, but had to take it off on the way home. There were children outside, playing in shorts, cherishing the ever-shorter daylight hours.

The next day was 46 degrees, raining with a chance of hail.

And by chance, I meant it was hailing.

Golf-balls.

I dragged myself into work, my ankle had actually stopped swelling and wasn't sprained nearly as bad as I thought. It still caused pain, though, so I retained a slight limp. Dad had left even earlier than I had, which was good, because he probably would have tried to talk me out of going. I pulled into the parking lot in front of the building and after wrestling with my umbrella for all of three minutes, tossed it angrily into the backseat and stomped as best I could through the cold and wetness.

The lobby was ridiculously air-conditioned, most likely keeping the settings from the day before, causing me to shiver uncontrollably. Clutching my damp jacket closer around me, I marched over to the elevator and slapped the button with the up arrow angrily, irritating the scratch on my palm. The doors slid open and I practically fell inside and closed my eyes, leaning against the wall as I felt the floor start to rise.

"How's your ankle?"

I blinked my eyes open frantically. Someone else was on the elevator with me.

Someone--

"You!"

"What?" Mr. Mysterio Der-Can't-Be-Real stared at me as I pointed my index finger at him indignantly.

"You're real?!"

"I should hope." His eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

"I--I'm sorry." I put a had to my forehead wearily, sweeping my long red hair out of my eyes. Removing my glasses and rubbing the bridge of my nose, I continued, "I've just not been in the greatest of my moods, you have to understand."

"I'm sure." He nodded, straightening his tie. "You do have a broken ankle, after all."

"It's not broken!" I protested, then backed down. I shouldn't be getting so angry at him. "No, really, it's fine, see?" I poked my foot out from underneath my long skirt, showing him the ace bandage and the visible reduction in swelling.

"Hmm." He bit his bottom lip thoughtfully. "I guess you're right."

The elevator stopped at his floor and opened with a ding. "You should probably still have a doctor look at it, though." He added before stepping off.

"Whatever," I mumbled to myself, riding up one more floor.

Helen was absolutely terrified to see me. "Rosie! What on earth are you doing here?"

"My job, Helen, what else?"

"Rosie! You were gravely injured! You need to rest!"

"Helen, it's just a sprained ankle, calm down, it's fine, really. Besides, Mr. Perkis is so cheap, he'd never give me another day off, workman's comp or not."

"Mr. Perkins can shove it where the sun don't shine, Rosie--"

"Ahem." Hilariously on cue, Mr. Perkins appeared behind Helen and gave her a warning look, then cast his gaze over to me. "In all seriousness, Rosemary, are you sure you're all right?"

"To sit at a computer all day? I'm fine, Mr. Perkins, just hire someone to fix that hole I made, okay?" I grinned and moved over to my desk and sat down, trying to reassure everyone. "Really, I'm fine! I'm still young."

"Yes, but Rosemary." Mr. Perkins walked over to my desk, rapped his knuckles on the surface a few times, then continued, "Be careful." Then he walked into his own office, shutting the door behind him.

Helen gave me a stern look. "Rosie--"

"Helen, it's fine."

"Okay." She replied doubtfully and turned back to her computer, though throughout the rest of the work day she would occasionally glance in my direction and sigh deeply.

I dutifully ignored the typhoon of guilt as best I could for the next seven hours or so. Somehow, despite all their incessant mollycoddling, I was the last one left in the office, the one forced to shut everything down, and complete the arduous task of pushing the light switch down to the off position.

It was still raining outside as I exited, and the little bit of daylight behind the clouds was calling it quits. I dragged myself over to my car, one of the last few left in the parking lot. As I got closer, I noticed the rear left side was leaning very close to the ground.

A flat tire.

Great.

I growled audibly and leaned down to inspect. A nail was embedded deep in the treads. When the heck did that happen? Nevertheless, I was a resourceful girl. I popped open my trunk and pulled out the jack, along with the spare donut and tire iron.

I squatted down and started to loosen the lug-nuts. This position proved catastrophic for my ankle and the pain caused my legs to go out from under me, and the tire iron slipped out of my hand and whacked me in the nose as my butt hit the ground in the center of a puddle.

"God . . . God DAMMIT!" I cried, mainly to Him, since no one else was around to hear it. I buried my face in my hands and started to bawl, my entire body shaking with each deep sob. "Stupid day! Stupid hail! Stupid ankle! Stupid tire!"

The glow from the headlights of a car illuminated me and I heard the engine through the sounds of the rain. I looked up at the small four-door and the power window of the passenger side rolled down and a voice called, "You all right? Car trouble?"

Oh Lord, my imaginary friend is stalking me.

"Yeah, I'm fine, just a flat tire." I sniffed my tears back up and tried to stand, but failed, falling back into the puddle. "Damn it!" I screamed, pounding at the ground with my fists. "Damn it damn it damn it DAMN IT!"

The lights left me and the car drove away as I buried my face again. I was such a wreck even imaginary characters were embarrassed to talk to me. Such was
my life.

I heard the clinking of metal and peeked between my fingers. Lord Fictionius LaFell-On-By-Me handed me an open umbrella as he rolled up his sleeves and picked up the tire iron I had dropped.

"It's okay, I know how to do it!" I tried to take it back from him, but he put his free hand up.

"I'm sure you do, but just let me, okay?" He pushed his glasses up his nose and turned back to the tire, loosening the bolts with ease. The muscles in his forearms tightened and relaxed in rhythm as he worked, before setting the flat aside and picking up the spare. Attaching the new tire with even greater ease then he discarded the old, he worked silently, with a serious expression. When he was finished, he stood, wiping his hands on his pants, then extended his hand out to me as I realized I had just been sitting in a puddle the entire time, bedazzled by this heroic figure of my mind's own mythology. I weakly stood beside him and opened the trunk again, where he dumped my flat tire, the iron, and the jack.

"Um, thank you." I said quietly. "I've just been having a really bad string of luck--"

"No kidding." He interrupted me. "Tell you how you can make it up to me, though."

"Uh, how?"

"Pancakes."

"Pancakes?"

"Pancakes." He smiled, and I realized I had only seen him do that once before. He led me over to his car, parked a few spaces away, opening the door like a gentleman. I hesitated before getting in, flashbacks of high school rape safety videos running through my head, although no matter how jaded I was, I doubted a rapist would ask me out for pancakes. Although I was injured, like a wounded gazelle -- ah, I was just being paranoid. Shrugging, I got in his car, grateful he had left the engine running so the heat was on.

As he got into the driver's seat, I began to babble my thanks again. "Um, thanks for everything, I'm sorry, you know, first for falling on you, then for being rude, then you had to fix my tire--"

"Don't worry about it." He pulled out of the parking lot slowly. "You've always been rude."

"'Always?'"

"Well, you know how we rode the elevator up this morning and you were surprised to see me?"

"Well, yeah, I thought I had imagined you--"

"Which is crazy. I'm sure you're insane as well as rude, but more rude, because we ride the elevator up together at least three mornings a week."

"Um-- really?"

"Really."

"I never noticed."

"No kidding. Although, the blame is partially on me. I never made an effort to talk to you, or even introduced myself. I'm Mark, by the way." He concluded, almost as an afterthought. "Mark Nakajima."

"Oh, I'm Rosemary. Rosemary Edwards."

"Rosemary? That's a pretty name."

"So they tell me." I felt my eyelids drooping sleepily. I was exhausted, wet, and cold, and in a strange man's car on my way to get pancakes. Slipping into dreams as we drove, I managed to ignore my discomfort and listen to the Japanese pop music playing softly on his stereo.

Wait a second--

"Is this Hikaru Utada?" I asked excitedly as my eyes popped open.

"Huh? Oh, yeah." Mark nodded. "It's her new one. You like J-Pop?"

"Are you kidding? J-Pop, J-Rock, J-Rap-- if it's from Japan, I'm all over it. Actually, a lot of the stuff coming out of Korea right now is pretty good, but China hasn't had anything decent since Aaron Kwok first got big."

"Oh, I know, right?" He slapped the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. "Not like you can find any over here, it's even hard to download the Chinese stuff."

"Well, it's not a big loss." I laughed and he grinned as we pulled into the parking lot of the IHOP. We continued babbling about the various injustices dealt upon members of the Asian hip-hop world as the waitress seated us in a booth by a window.

"So what's good here?" I asked Mark as he opened his menu.

"Eh? You never been to an IHOP?"

"Not in years." I admitted.

"Oh. Oh . . ." his head fell back onto the booth and he slumped over to the side, moaning painfully. "Oh . . ."

"Mark? Did I kill you?" My eyes grew wide in horror.

"Rosemary . . . " he moaned. "I didn't know! Oh, I didn't know . . ."

"Know what?"

"You've never," he sat up suddenly and leaned in close. "You've never had pumpkin pancakes."

"Pumpkin . . . pancakes?"

"Pumpkin. Pancakes."

"That--" My eyes grew wider. "Sounds delicious."

"Oh, it is." He leaned back confidently. "It is."

I couldn't help but laugh obnoxiously as the poor waitress tried to take our drink order. Mark managed to guess by my flailing hand signals that I wanted a Coke, no, a sweet tea, no, just a Coke'll be fine, thanks.

We managed to order two stacks of pumpkin pancakes as well, and I drowned mine in syrup and Mark squirmed in his seat a little. "What?"

"I just . . . hate syrup."

"Who hates syrup?"

"I do. I hate syrup."

I raised and eyebrow and took a bite, wondering what genetic mutation could cause a hatred for tasty, tasty syrup.

"Do you have to be home anytime soon?"

"Eh? Um . . . . what time is it?"

"Quarter after six."

"Ah . . . my friend Celia's coming over at eight. Now I can tell her you're actually a real actual person in real life, actually."

"What's this about me not being real again?"

"Well, um--" I felt my cheeks turned red as I remembered why I had first started thinking that. "I--uh-- thought you were a hallucination, that I had a concussion after falling like that. Sorry again, by the way."

"It's not your fault, sometimes floors-- well, I mean, I guess sometimes floors just give out. I guess."

"No, only when they're underneath me, only then are they willing to sacrifice a
human life to the cruel whims of gravity."

"Hrrrm." He took a large gulp of his lemonade. "So poetic, Rosemary. Either way, I'll get you home in time."

"What? You can just take me back to my car--"

"No, it's all right, I don't mind."

"But how will I get back to work in the morning?"

"I can take you."

"But it must be out of the way."

"Rosemary." He set his fork down on his plate and gave me an even more serious glare than usual. "I live two houses away from you. I see you every morning and afternoon."

"Uh --- really?"

"Really."

"Wow. How oblivious am I?"

"Pretty oblivious, I'm starting to discover." His hair, which he usually kept well combed, was falling into his eyes, and he brushed it back, seemingly annoyed. I began to feel horribly guilty. Apparently, I ignore gorgeous tenants of male perfection like they are lepers.

"Wait a minute, how do I know you're not stalking me? Maybe you noticed me at my last job, or from high school, and you were so obsessed you started working in my building, living in my neighborhood, following me everywhere I go, huh?" I narrowed my eyes suspiciously.

"What? I lived in my house for five years before you moved into yours! You guys only moved in two years ago!"

"Oh . . . yeah."

"And I've also worked in that building way longer than you have, and I went
to high school in Maryland."

"Oh. Well then." I dabbed at my mouth politely with a napkin. "Guess you're not a stalker then."

"No. I'm not."

"Wait . . . you lived in out neighborhood for five years?"

"Yeah, my parents sold me the house when they moved to Florida, why?"

"Mark . . ." I stabbed at my pancakes. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven."

"Twenty-seven?!" That's a seven year age difference! That's way too much to date . . . not like we were going to date . . . and if we were both in our thirties it wouldn't matter, but if I brought home a twenty-seven year old guy, Dad might have a heart attack. On second thought, if I brought home any guy, I might have a heart attack. Not like we were going to date anyway, I mean, look at this guy, Hottie McHotstuff and me, Fatty VonLoudmouth. Completely and totally in-com-pat-i-ble.

"Why? How old are you, Rosemary?" He made a neat incision into his pancake stack.

"I just turned twenty last month."

"Oh. Really?" He looked nearly as surprised as I did. "I thought you were
older, you work in that office with all those middle-aged ladies."

"I thought you were younger. I thought you were a student or something getting work credits, but here you are, almost thirty. You could be a doctor by now!"

"I am a doctor."

"W--what?!"

"Well, I mean, a chiropractor."

"Oh, so not a real doctor then."

"What's that supposed to mean? I have a degree and everything!"

"From the Bahamas?"

"No," he rolled his eyes. "From EVMS."

"What the heck is that?"

"Eastern Virginia Medical School. Come on, it's only like thirty minutes away from here."

"Oh . . . yeah?"

"Yeah. So there. I win."

I conceded my defeat by dunking the last bites of my pancakes deep into the syrup and consuming them indignantly.

The waitress left the check on the table, and as I reached for it, Mark snatched it up and pulled some money out of his wallet.

"Hey, I was gonna pay. You fixed my tire, and I fell on you--"

"Enough." He shrugged without smiling. "I'm just chivalrous like that." He slid out of the booth, hopping to his feet, and extended his hand down to me once more. "Come on, I'll get you home, you gotta meet your friend, right?"

"Um, yeah." I put my hand in his, realizing how large it was for the first time. And you know what they say about big hands.

Right. Big gloves.

The ride home was quite enjoyable, he pulled out a gigantic binder full of CDs, even larger than my own personal collection of eclectic music, but, then again, the old-timer did have seven years of collecting on me. Eager to play me a particular song, he nearly crashed the car into a fire hydrant, skirting disaster at the last second. "Whoo. How awful would that be?" He turned to me with a look of relief.

"Pretty bad, I should know. I hit one last year."

"You hit a fire hydrant?"

" . . . I don't want to talk about it."

"All right then." He shrugged and the rest of the trip was fairly uneventful. I made it home a few minutes before eight to discover my father snoring deeply in his reclining chair. I nudged him a few times and sent him to his room before I hobbled over to the couch to rest.

"Rosemary! I have arrived!" My front door opened with an ominous crash of lightning, framing the form of my best friend, Celia Carruthers.

Celia is skinny, and pretty, and smart, self-centered, shallow, and mean. Men fall all over her constantly though her limited patience keeps her from maintaining any sort of lasting relationship, although I doubt she even wants one anyway. In short, I hate her. Mainly because she doesn't try to be skinny, she just has one of those magical metabolism things I hear so much about. I wish I had one.

I'm not one to really talk about lasting relationships with men, as I've had two in my entire life, and they hardly lasted long enough to qualify as "lasting," and I am still a virgin, so this is how these things go.

"Hello, Celia, I am so glad you came you're awesome!"

"Yes, yes, I am aware." She took a seat beside me on the couch. "So what happened, now?"

I related the entire story in detail, from my small triumph over the skinny girl at Target to falling on top of Mark, and the various made up names I had dubbed him, to my flat tire and impromptu IHOP outing.

"So this guy," Celia leaned forward eagerly, her hands on her knees. "Is he single?"

"What? I never thought to ask."

"You're killing me, Rosemary! Absolutely killing me, to death, Rosemary. You are killing me to death."

"Well, it's not like I was planning on dating this guy--"

"Oh, no, not this guy, this incredibly handsome, chivalrous, doctor, DOCTOR, who you actually share common interests with, why would you ever even consider a terrible prospect like that?" She threw one of my couch cushions in the air and flopped backwards. "And to think, he lives two doors away from you, you see him nearly every day, and you just never noticed! There is something wrong with your hardware, Rose, I swear to God."

"Celia, it's not like he'd be interested in me anyway."

"Rosemary!" She sat up straight, shaking her hands at me. "You're absolutely hopeless."

"I try my best not to get anyone's expectation's up, no."

"I hate you, Rosemary."

"I hate you too, Cel, I hate you too."