Everyone knew her as ‘Rose’, but there was nothing rose-like about her, save for maybe her thorny demeanor and her red, red lips. Lips so pouty and full and red she eternally looked like she had just been feeding on some poor soul’s jugular. Her skin was the color of alabaster, her jet colored hair was cut in angles, and her high cheekbones made her a candidate for any runway. She was lithe yet shapely, a combination that made the men and the women stare as she glided by. Rose was statuesque, even without her patent leather platform spike-heeled knee-high boots. The heels were so high and slender that it was a wonder she had never once stumbled, at least, not once in all of the years that she had been coming to the club.
How many years ago was it that Rose had simply appeared one night, like an apparition out of the ether? Others discussed the question, but no one could remember. It was as if Rose had been there since the dawn of time itself. Strangely, though, she never seemed to fall prey to the ravages of the night life or time. No one knew her age: she could have been anywhere between twenty and fifty. Of course, no one had ever inquired, for all attempts to make conversation with Rose were met with only silence. Actually, no one, not even the bartenders, knew what her voice sounded like. She didn’t have to order her drinks for she drank the same thing as long as anyone could recall: vodka and cranberry, two shots, and no ice.
Rose would come to the club, always alone, and walk like smooth water to the bar, where she would promptly be served. She would sip her drink with downcast eyes, ignoring the crowd of Goths around her engaged in various activities and various states of intoxication. No one ever approached her where she stood or tried to sidle in next to her to order a drink. It was simply understood, even to first time patrons, that Rose was untouchable. She not unkind or rude, ever. She was simply….distant, as if she had come from another time and place. Everyone knew Rose, yet not a soul actually knew her.
After finishing her drink, Rose would leave her glass neatly on the bar and stride, cat-like, to the dance floor. No matter how crowded the club was, other patrons always made way for her. It was like Moses parting the Goth sea as writhing bodies sensed her presence and stepped aside, only to resume their frenetic dancing in her wake. The club had a stage where bands would perform, but Rose only came when there was a DJ and the stage would be empty. Rose came to dance.
She would stand at the front of the stage, right at the very edge, and begin by listening to what song was playing. Then she would begin to sway like a willow in the breeze of an autumn evening. After she had fully internalized the dynamics of the song, Rose would really begin to dance. Her movements were indescribable. She twirled, undulated, and her arms would move like serpents. She was always perfectly matched to the beat and never mis-stepped. She had the grace of a prima ballerina and the primal urgency of one who is possessed. The odd thing was that she accomplished all of this with her eyes closed. Rose always danced with her eyes closed. Some thought that it was so she could fully focus on the music, others argued that she did it to enter a trance-like state, while some merely wondered how she managed to not fall off the stage as she danced at the very line where the stage ended and continued no more. It was as if she could see, despite her closed eyes. Perhaps she possessed an all perceiving third eye, if you believe in that sort of thing. If you don’t, well, watching Rose under the lights flowing like the cosmos would make you believe.
She would dance for hours, never once stopping to catch her breath, never once showing any signs of perspiration or fatigue, never once stopping to order another drink. She simply danced. And, when she was sated, she would just as simply glide down the steps and out the door into the wide, dark night, with her yes still half closed. She made eye contact with no one, not even the door man, as she sailed like a bird of prey out of the club. No one knew where she went, let alone where she lived, or how she departed, for she had never been seen walking from or to a vehicle. Furthermore, no one knew when she would return, for her excursions were erratic and completely unpredictable. She would simply appear, like the fog rolling in off the sea at night, and then retreat just as silently as she had come.
Naturally, Rose was the subject off many a late night discussion: What did she do for work? Was she shy? Was she mute? Was she autistic? Was she a vampire? Was she an honest-to-God real life succubus? Who, or what, was Rose? What was her actual name, for that matter? She became something of a local legend and, once, some magazine had wanted to interview her for an article. They had to give up on their planned feature for, even after weeks of searching by their best journalists (and employing the services of a private detective), no trace of La Femme Rose (the title of the planned article) could be found. There was no information about her birth, family, employment, social security number, registered address, ownership of property, payment of taxes, legal matters, her social circle, no results in any computer search engine, and zero social media accounts or activity. It was as if she didn’t exist. Every question went unanswered, every theory left unproven.
All that anyone knew for certain was that, when the lunar phase was to her liking and the breeze blew in from the north, Rose would return to repeat her singular ritual before vanishing like a will-o’-the-wisp: a mote of light dissolving into the darkness, uncapturable, untamable, and unfathomable.
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