Rose looks haughtily around herself. A fourteen-year-old narcissist, and quite rich on top of that, she is extremely full of herself. Full of something anyway.
My name is Jack Dawson. I am fifteen and I live with two other guys under a bridge here in France. But I won't live here long. I'm going to follow Rose to England, Ireland, Rome, America - anywhere she goes.
I look different every time she sees me. Right now, I have long brown hair that I keep in a ponytail. I need it out of my way while I draw, after all. That is the only thing consistent with my appearance; I always have a sketchbook and some drawing pencils nearby. But she hardly notices that strangers with green eyes and drawing materials seem to be everywhere she goes.
Right now, Rose is sitting in the back of a carriage looking out the window. Her eyes look almost sad for a moment - I pick it up because I am an artist and notice things others don't. And because I notice every change in the woman I love.
Yes, that's right. I consider her a woman.
As I see that particular emotion in her eyes, I wonder if she really is so vain, or if she looks in that hand mirror all the time to ask herself why she lets her mother freight her all around Europe, showing her off like a well-trained dog.
I give her a warm smile. She looks at me, an odd expressionless glance, and then turns her head away from the window and stares straight ahead. She looks confused. Did she recognise me?
Then she leans forward and says something to the carriage driver. I know he has some sort of title, but I'm not sure. Is it a jockey? I think so. I haven't been to school in years, so I'm proud to know that word. I saw it in a newspaper... about horse racing... damn. He's not a jockey.
Anyway, now she's getting out of the carriage. She looks interestedly at the chestnut horses tied to it. "Harness", I know, is a word, but I don't think "harnessed" is, so I'll say tied. Not that I even speak to people very often.
Again, I stop thinking about my small vocabulary and see that Rose is now sitting at a table of the café that I was standing in front of. So she didn't come to speak to me. Damn, damn, DAMN. But oh! She just met my eyes, and motioned for me to come closer!
I stiffen my shoulders, and walk confidently forward. I know that means I walked forward with confidence. See, I'm no dumbass.
"Why, may I ask, did you smile at me?" Rose cocks her head to the side as she says this. Her dark red hair swings onto her shoulder and I feel all fluttert inside, like a giggling school girl. Great.
"You looked like you needed a smile." I cock my head to the side, imitating her expression of polite curiousity mixed with... well, I don't what the word would be, but she sort of looks like she thinks I shouldn't be allowed to smile at her, and like I definitely shouldn't have had the nerve to accept her invitation to sit. What kind of girl is this! This is the first time I've gotten so close to her, but not the first time I spoke to her. Last spring I tossed her a flower from the top of a bridge and when she looked up, I called down to her, "For you, m'ladee!", with what I hoped was a cockney accent. I'm really American.
"Well, I don't. Didn't. And won't ever. And I'm not ever going to speak to you again!" I continue to mock her expression. "Hmph!" She stands and grabs her handbag, obviously about to stalk off angrily, when suddenly she sits. "I was here first, YOU leave! Right now, sir, I demand that you leave at once!" She glares at me. I glare back. "And stop doing that!"
"I thought you just said you were never going to speak to me again." I stop mocking her to smile again. I was once told I have a charming smile, but this was by a hooker, so I've no idea if it's true. "Besides, you invited me to sit and so here I am, sitting, and you're not going to stop me." I stay calm, knowing people hate when others are calm while they're angry.
"You- You-" She stops and sighs. "You're right. I'll be the one to leave then." She stands again, probably trying to use reverse psychology or something... But she actually looks defeated; like she's lost a very important battle. She seems much older than fourteen, and I wonder how being brought up to act stuck-up could possibly mature her so well.
"Rose, wait!" I say, without thinking. She falls back into her chair, looking scared now.
"How do you know my name! How?" She seems very frightened now, and all her maturity is gone; in fact now she's like a frightened child, looking from her warm bed into the darkness and wondering what had caused a thumping noise.
I feel my face grow warm, but I don't believe I am blushing. I open my sketchbook to a drawing of the exact flower I had given her from the bridge last year. I rip it out of my sketch book and hand it to her. "For you, m'ladee," I say softly in the same accent I had feigned last spring.
I am positive now she's going to alert the authorities, positive I'll be put in jail for stalking her, positive -
"Thank you sir" she mumbles quietly. She looks deep into both of my eyes. "Please don't speak to me again." She stands and walks away, not quickly nor slowly, and doesn't look back.
I sit and watch her go. Then I realise how dumb I've been these past few years. She will never love me. I should not love her.
So I stand, and I walk, in the opposite direction of Rose's carriage. I walk away from Rose and hope to forget her. But I never do.