A spice

God damn she was pretty. She walked through the december rain and into the s****y frat house in an oversized grey pullover with paint stains. Or were they food? And did I see burn holes? Her black yoga pants hugged her hips down to the knee and then loosened to cover her black ugg boots that I hadn’t seen anybody wear for ten years. She had that expression that made you think she hated everyone, but invited you to change her mind about you.

Her hershey bar colored hair swung around underneath the red patterned scarf she put on her head to cover the rain. Or maybe to draw attention to herself, though she didn’t seem like the type to want attention. At least not from me.

Her name was Rosemary Solomon and I still don’t really know if my glancing diagnosis of her personality was accurate.

We met at a party. I, being a loud, obnoxious druggie, and her, being a slightly less loud and obnoxious druggie, really hit it off when I tried my fool-proof pick up line of “Hey, wanna do lines in the bathroom?”

“Yes of course I do!” she said in her high pitched, friendly voice. Everybody was always friendly at parties though, so I thought nothing of it. I sure as hell hoped it meant something, but knew it didn’t. I’m a cynic and a romantic and that gets a little weird sometimes.

In the tiny cork-floored bathroom I cut up the white power on the sink and noticed how perfectly tan it made her skin look when I compared the two.

“I’m Rosemary!” she explained, “And you’re Carter right? You fucked one of my friends.”

I laughed. “When you say it like that it sounds like I f**k a lot of people. Who’s your friend?”

“Daniela Quintero-Rodriguez. She was obsessed with you for a while, actually.”

S**t, I thought. “Oh, yeah Daniela. That was interesting.”

“It’s ok I know she’s an awful person, I kinda hate her.” she said, noticing me looking around for an exit to escape the girl I now associated with a crazy raging b***h. Thank god.

“Dear god, me too.” I said through forced laughter that I think sounded pretty genuine. I’m a good liar when it really counts.

We did snorted our lovely Colombian candy and returned to the party, sticking with each other and chatting for a good half an hour before I had to throw up and try to not get into a fight with the a*****e who was rapping over Worldstar by Childish Gambino. Don’t f**k up my ‘bino.

That party was a year ago, senior year of college. I found out a couple days later via twitter that she actually went to MC, despite being at a University of Maryland party. That’s a BIG no-no, but she was hot so I’m guessing if anybody knew she didn’t belong they didn’t mention it.

Rosemary Solomon is now my best friend, and I thank the world for her being into a s****y drug that’s only useful for impressing trashy college chicks.

“Come in!” she yelled from somewhere in her small apartment that was littered with canvasses and easels. So much paint had been spilled I always thought she had a three-year-old child she wouldn’t tell me about. I decided his name would probably be Gavin.

I turned the handle and leaned my shoulder against the old, sticky door, and as I stepped carefully over a pile of books I was met with a “Hi, ctipzz!” (why is she calling me by my twitter name?) and a wet paintbrush flung across the room striking me right above the nose. If it were anybody else throwing colored s**t at me and very carefully picked wardrobe consisting of a grey hoodie from h&m and hand-me-down blue jeans, I would’ve been significantly miffed, but it was Rosemary, so I couldn’t help but laugh.

“You b***h!” I said, wiping the crimson paint off my forehead and looking over at her in her pink hello-kitty pajama pants and tight black tank top. There were splotches of yellow and red all over her arms and face, but she somehow kept her clothes completely pristine. She had her hair in her signature messy bun on top of her head, and it had been a few hours since she had put it like that because it was loose and slanting to the left. I’ve never seen anybody who can pull off a bun on the top of their head, they always look like aliens, but she managed to make it look cute, sexy, and effortless all at the same time.

She was smiling at me with her mouth slightly open and had that slight squint in her eyes that  told you she was always doing something mischievous. “Come here I wanna show you my painting.”

I stepped over the cans of beer and soda and old plates she left around. The apartment was rather disgusting, but I attributed it to the fact she was an artist, an intellectual, and couldn’t be bothered to involve herself in such mundane tasks like tidying up. Or maybe she was lazy.

On the small canvas was a portrait of a white and purple skull, with a red, elegant hat, and matching lips. On the blue background where the words Out Late. “That’s really cool!” I said, “Where’s the Kathy?” Kathy was her imaginary friend, who she would yell at whenever somebody pissed her off. There were sharpie doodles of a cartoon woman with words like “God d****t Kathy!” all over the walls. She liked to hide a small little kathy in every piece she did.

“I haven’t added it yet,” she explained “I don’t know who’s pissed me off enough recently.”

“How about Oliver?” Her thirteen-year-old brother had recently been caught trying to escape from his remedial boarding school in Maine.

“That could work.” she said, “God damn I wish he would just learn to suck it up and behave for once. He always asks me to come pick him up and let him live with me.”

“You know I would maybe think you would actually do that, you love him.” I said.

“Yes I do but…” she replied softly.

“But what?”

“I mean it is best for him to just stay there.”

“Holy s**t, Rosemary, are you agreeing with your parents about something?” I teased.

“Shut the f**k up.” she said, splashing more red paint in my face.