rose

rose had large feet, largeness that hinted at height, height she did not reach. as an awkward 11-year-old wearing a pair of sneakers size 11 to match, a doctor informed her she would surely reach great heights of at least 5 feet 11 inches. she imagined herself statuesque and like most girls with a tall future and a beautiful face, she imagined herself gracefully stomping her way across a runway in paris. but then, as if by some act of divine intervention, she stopped short at 5 feet 5 inches and started cursing god for this treachery. her vertical growth had disappointed her so much, she made up for it horizontally. there are no height requirements for a whore. with a bed as her runway and having never been to paris, she imagined the middle of nevada was close enough.

prostitution does have its advantages, allowing her a diet more substantial than diet coke and cigarettes, she delighted in fried food freedom. she often had a slight sheen around her mouth from the grease lunch had left behind. she didn't mind the gradual expansion that was taking place because it was the type of weight gain slow enough to be missed. the kind of weight gain that kept you eating only until you knocked a box of photos off the closet shelf to be left standing there in your too-tight-underwear looking down at a glossy image of your thinner happier self. upon seeing such photos, people are often overcome with the consumptive desire to go on a diet, to start attending the gym, to accept the absence of time machines and opt instead for the empty life of caloric control and late night crunches. rose was yet to confront her younger, thinner self and for now she was happy eating chicken wings to erase the taste of a stranger's penis.