Her bedroom is cold in October. It chills the rose water sitting in glass bottles on the dresser. Several of the bottles are empty but she likes the way they look, lined up like relics in a temple. Spraying the water down her back, the skin rises up along her spine, a part of her body that curves in a way men like. A man she loves traces it with his finger. It is like a painting, he says.
Continuing the ritual, brushing the water through her hair because they say roses will maintain softness. Femininity has always been sacred to her. Femininity has always been easy to achieve in the privacy of her bedroom.
She paints her nails so that they may glitter in the sun to accompany expressive gestures in the company of friends. She pulls skinny jeans over her hips and ties her shoes in the same way she learned as a child.
Opening the door, the sun begins warming the top of her head as she grabs her bike and joins the flow of traffic. The wind rustles her hair as she balances between cars. The scent of roses mixes with the city and her heart beats in happiness. This is when life resembles poetry, she thinks, peddling up a hill.
Across the street there is shouting.
Hey! Nice Bike! I wish I was a bike so that you could ride me down the street! Haha! Hey. Do you hear me? Yeah bitch.
She looks over and stares. She has learned that to have a relationship with beauty in America, you will intimately know the cut of vulgarity. She has learned that to be soft within grit is an act of rebellion.
25 years of this, she thinks, looking away, reaching the top of the hill.
She scans the city below and smiles.