icy roses

Dank, sour smoke mixes with the bitter smell of day-old coffee, surrounding the short, young woman with a dull haze similar to the low hum that permeates the dim newsroom. She leans back in her large, leather chair, disconnectedly aware of all that goes on around her. Before her stretches an expansive desk covered with chaotic piles of paper and a small, brass nameplate bearing the name of “Rose Stanton.” Tense fingers on her right hand grip a slender cigarette smeared with lipstick and moist breath. Inches from her left hand a silver ring sits, nearly hidden behind the ashtray, tied with a black ribbon and a fresh newspaper obituary labeled, “Robert Michael Stanton.” Small, gray ashes, strewn about on the desk haphazardly, seem to quiver with every subconscious pulse in the woman’s tightly wound mind. From beneath a dark, felt cloche pulled low over her face, her red-rimmed eyes stare icily at the cigarette in her hand. Somehow she perpetuates her cool facade of confidence despite the heavy weight which visibly pulls her shoulders downward. Even so, the dark grief lurking on the outskirts of her mask threatens to unseat her icy demeanor.

posted by paradoxically correct @ 7:51 PM