Rosie Labrun is a lot of things: a college student on the cusp of graduation; an intern for the Portland Pirates, a romance novel connoisseur; and the most recent addition to her resume...the girlfriend of a professional athlete.
She won't let it d...
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"Seriously?" I ask Rosie, scowling as she goes to grab her coat from the front closet. An oversized parka, along with a backpack that looks like it could be housing a dead body - that's my girlfriend's baggage on this Monday afternoon.
She doesn't seem to know what I'm talking about - or at least pretends like she doesn't. Kind of like when you know the native language of people that're talking nearby, but don't say anything because you wanna see what they're talking about.
"What?" She questions, a gleam of recognition breaking through her eyes, informing me that she knows exactly what I'm talking about - but is choosing to pretend not to.
That's what happens when you spend nearly every hour of your days with somebody, you learn their tells. How to know when they're feeling sad, happy, alone, depressed. And also when they're utilizing their acting skills from that play they did in third grade, to avoid being called on their bluff.
I give her a look, as if asking if she wants to do this the easy way or the hard way. Which is of course a trick question, because when it comes to Rosie, everything is done the hard way - and I do mean everything.
"You took the bus?" I ask her, as if trying to leave a blatantly obvious trail of breadcrumbs in my line of questioning. One that would be socially acceptable to communicate, whilst we're standing in a room full of strangers.
Strangers that have spent the last five minutes, staring at us; strangers that whispered and elbowed each other when we walked by. I used to want to know what they were thinking - but I've learnt that part of surviving as a professional athlete, is not giving a shit.
Rosie stares back at me, like we're playing a professional game of poker. The prize? I'm not quite sure; maybe bragging rights, or the ability to end a tense conversation. Which in this case, is one that we've had plenty of times - enough that I could literally talk about it, until I'm red in the face.
Which isn't exactly the hardest thing to do - considering that I'm borderline Albino.
"I told you, I'm not doing that." She says, using a hushed tone as she looks around, wanting to make sure that nobody else knows what we're talking about. A perk of being famous? People eavesdropping on your conversations; anticipatingly rubbing their fingers, like they're waiting for some new content to tweet online.
Sometimes it makes me feel like a monkey at the zoo, being asked to perform a dance routine I don't know the number to.
"I'm just saying..." I begin, stopping myself when I notice the middle aged woman a few feet away, staring at me. She probably thinks that I'm some asshole of a boyfriend, pressuring his girlfriend to have an abortion - that was only caused because I was too much of a little bitch to wear a condom in the first place.
"I know what you're saying. I've heard it before - but the answer's still the same." Rosie tells me, finishing with an encore performance as we head out the front door.
