Chapter Eight, Part Two: The Way We Weren'tMature

“I thought he’d never leave, Doctor…” Rosette’s interface calls softly to him, rising from the floor behind in a whirl of girl and eau de something pleasant. 

The whole ship smells of roses, that sweet, soft, delicate spray of reddish or greenish or white or cream or rainbow. Or blue. Or black. Of hips and petals and all things named as they should be.

 Rose. Oh Rose.

 “Do you have it?” he asks with white lips, his flesh taking on its natural color as she leans toward his back, a tower of white in Rose’s form.

 The Bismuth Sunrise Rose.

 And Rose’s slow acknowledging nod- not quite a cameo, not quite a pop culture poster on a teenager’s bedroom wall.

 And eee by by gum! The hands… oh the hands… that scent!

 All over the ship! 

All over the ship!


 Mmm… all over the ship…

 “Hi, Doc… I hear that lots of places have a north…” the interface murmurs, falling against his back and staying there, one hand wrapping and snaking irreverently like a porcelain coat, “…that still true?”

 The fingers of her free hand cling to his skin, gripping his jaw. His rusty mouth springs open like an old iron trap as she tucks the brilliant rainbow-colored rose behind his ear like Biv’s boutonniere, idling over everywhere of him. Especially his hair.

The End

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