If You're One for Breathing

I'm twenty years old.

The statement echoes in my mind as I stare at the shop. I pass by here every day, every flipping day, refusing myself the pleasure of ever going in. After all, it's a wedding dress. I'm not getting married. Goodness, I'm not even dating. I'm completely alone.

Well, not really... Sam is there. My roommate. I'm pretty sure he's gay, but he continually denies it. As it is, he's usually locked away in his huge room [he took out a wall for more space before I moved in], because he's a sculptor. It's rare I see one of his pieces. But when I do, I certainly like them. He's really talented- but apparently he doesn't want to go to a nice school, like in L.A. or Rhodes Island for the arts. Whatever- he never really makes sense.

But I'm off my point.

I stare at the dress, sighing. It's a stunning ivory-white with lace and beads, a low neckline and small straps that simply sit on the shoulders, a wide skirt and flowers. It's absolutely beautiful. There's no other way to describe it. It would befit a queen, I think.

But I'm no queen.

Slowly I pull away and continue walking down the street, leaving my job. As it is, I work at a flower shop. It's small, but very successful. It's a peaceful, friendly environment, and I've surprised myself at how much I like it. I work there every day after my college classes- I'm on the swim team, which caught me by surprise, along with some biology and other science classes. The more I'm surrounded by the flowers, the more they impress me and I just keep taking those classes. Beatrice, my boss, says she'd love to hand the shop over to me. But she says lots of things.

"Finally!" Sam cries exasperatedly as I walk through our door. It's a tiny house squished between others, where our washer and dryer- which rarely work- are out on the porch under a cloth hanging. It's three floors. He has the entire second floor, I have the top along with all the storage, while the first floor includes a hall, kitchen, dining room, living room, and closet. As I stated before, it's very squished. Sam often complains about feeling claustrophobic, but I don't see him moving yet.

"What?" I ask, pulling off my boots. It's chilling up, now that it's October, but I still find it quite odd. I don't know, though- it's just weather. I glance up warrily, because when Sam is running around in circles- like he is now- it tends to mean something's on fire.

"I'm late!" He pouts. "And someone has to be watching Francisco!" He shoves his new pet pug into my arms as he pulls on his jacket. "I'll be back in the morning, loves. Don't feed him, let him out every other hour, and he loves his belly rubbed."

"Gee, we were just going to have a bloody beer together," I roll my eyes sarcasitcally.

"Don't even," he threatens, kissing the pug and pinching my shoulder before stepping out.

All that, in one minute.

Sighing, I look down at the dog in my arms. "Guess it's just you and me, huh?" I set him down, and he goes running off, yipping. "Or not." I ignore him and take the chance to unwrap my scarf and slowly pull off my jacket. I roll up my long sleeves, pull on some slippers, and head to the kitchen.

After I grab a few things, I make the long trek upstairs. Francisco follows me quietly, his nails tapping loudly in the silence on the hardwood floor. Photo frames and paintings line each wall, but I've memorized them to a point where I don't bother, too focused on where I'm headed.

Music is turned on. I drop the things on my coffee table. I step around the bathroom and then I Love Lucy reruns begin on the television set. The noise drowns out my thoughts and feeling completely alone, even with Francisco panting at my feet, I sit on my balcony to look at the city.

My own song enters my mind as I fiddle with the razor in my arms. So swift and light, it's the only thing that seems to make my heart hammer in the least. Swish. It's a bittersweet sound as blood dribbles down my wrist. "Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to..." But I don't feel like finishing it.