Trophies

It was 3 AM when Rosie finally turned off her phone and put it on the nightstand. What was it about him that kept her up like this anyway? Almost every night she’d stay awake just to chat with him, even though she was clearly tired and needed to rest.
She simply couldn’t resist opening those messages whenever they beeped. Her finger would trail on top of the notification for a few seconds and then finally she’d give in, pressing and opening up the conversation. They would talk about random things, like what she was planning to cook for dinner the next day, what colour her blanket was, how many books she had on her shelf waiting for her to stop buying new ones and read what was already collecting dust. He would ask her about her day, about her interests, about her desires. She would giggle by herself while reading his jokes or opening up the reels he’d send.
It was fun and addictive.
And then there was that one voice message where he had simply said her name: ‘Rosie.’ The way those five letters came out of his mouth made her skin shiver. She didn’t even like her name. She hated roses, those fuckers kept growing like weeds in her front garden even though she made of habit of cutting them off completely from time to time. She had no desire to hire a gardener just for that one job and she had no strength to pull out the roots. So she kept coming at them with her gardening scissors, cutting those mother fuckers all the time, knowing that they would come back like past lovers to haunt her. Her full name was Rosalind and she hated that one too. It sounded like an old lady name. She could just picture herself with a flower apron, her hair in a low bun, baking pies and cookies all the time. Ugh. Horrible name. If she could, Rosie would go and change it. But she didn’t want to spend money on that particular thing. She had other more important stuff to take care of.
Like her collection. The jars of her prized possessions lining the shelves of the other room, stacked neatly one on top of each other, their glass clear like crystal because Rosie was spending hours everyday cleaning them and rearranging. Sometimes she would go into the room, sit on her corner chair and look at them for a few minutes, proud of her work. Other days she’d pick one of the jars and take it with her while she went about her day, the liquid moving around like a beautiful river in spring. Sometimes, when she was particularly sad, Rosie would take one of them with her outside. She’d gently put it in her bag, careful to screw the lid shut as hard as she could so the contents don’t spill around. She’d pick her bread, milk and eggs and smile at the cashier, paying while the jar would wobble gently with every one of her steps.
She closed her eyes and fell asleep immediately thinking about him. Michael. Now his name was a good one. If he would have been a prince with a crown on his head, the name would have rolled on every one of his subject’s tongues with ease. If he would have been a firefighter, girls would let themselves be carried in his strong arms while whispering his name in awe. Michael was just a banker. Boring occupation, Rosie had to admit, but with a name like that she had no doubts he soon would get to be the Bank Manager.
The next day the sun was shining through her window and Rosie barely opened her eyes when she heard the unmistakable beep of her phone announcing a new message. She smiled. He knew her schedule. Her awake times and her routine. She grabbed her phone and opened the notification.
Good morning, beautiful.
Morning, Michael. Hope you slept well.
She waited for a reply and when none came she reluctantly went into the bathroom to wash. When she was finished, Rosie arranged her bed, the sheets pulled to perfection to the sides. She liked to be clean and organized. Her bed looked like one of those featured in furniture brochures. Her whole house looked like a real estate ad. Everything had to be lined to perfection. There were no pictures or paintings hung on the walls because she thought they only cluttered and made the walls looked like they were stained with random images. She also had no decorations on her shelves. Who needs those anyway? Useless waste of space. Rosie had never watched Marie Kondo’s shows but she would have loved them. Less was always better with her. Except, of course, when it came to her collection. Those you simply could never have enough!
When she was happy with the bed, she picked up her phone and noticed she had two new messages, probably received when while she had been in the bathroom.
Slept like a log (No jokes about my log!) I was wrecked. Hope you rested well too.
The second message was something unexpected.
Hey, was wondering… if you’d like to go for a coffee sometimes?
Rosie stared at t