Rosamarie Hock
One way ticket to future ( Part 4 of series)
The slush beneath Rosa’s boots was turning to ice, but she didn’t move. She adjusted her blue plaid flares and stared at the digital display: Next bus: #14 Down — 5 min.
Rosa had spent her life calculating the arrival of "The One." After years of being bruised by the wrong hands and lied to by silver tongues,
she had built a fortress around her heart. She wasn't just looking for a partner anymore; she was looking for a miracle. A man without flaws, a man who was perfect.
The air suddenly shimmered, smelling of ozone and burnt rubber. A sleek, stainless-steel machine—the DeLorean—materialized at the curb with a hiss of steam. The license plate read OUT OF TIME.
A figure stepped out. He didn’t look like a monster; he looked like the personification of Tomorrow. "Rosa," he said, his voice like the hum of a power grid. "You’re waiting for the wrong thing."
"I'm waiting for what I deserve," she snapped, chin held high. "The perfect man. I won't settle again."
The visitor sighed and gestured toward the billboard behind her. With a flick of his wrist, the advertisement rippled like water. The colorful graphics dissolved into a stark, skeletal reality.
"This is your 'Next Exit,'" the visitor said, pointing to the road sign beside the bench. "Your future isn't a person, Rosa. It’s a clock. You’ve spent so much time guarding yourself against the 'imperfect' that you’ve invited the only thing that is truly permanent: Nothing."
Rosa looked at the skeleton on the sign. It wore her favorite dress. It sat in her exact pose. It was a monument to a life spent waiting for a ghost.
"He doesn't exist," the visitor whispered as he stepped back into his car. "And while you wait for a man who has no flaws, you are missing the beautiful, messy, imperfect life that is passing you by right now."
The car roared, tires spinning as it vanished into a streak of light. Rosa sat alone again. The bus sign flickered: 1 min. For the first time in years, Rosa didn't look for a savior in the distance.
She looked at her own hands, wiped the frost from her jacket, and decided that "perfect" was a grave she wasn't ready to climb into just yet.
One way ticket to future ( Part 4 of series)
The slush beneath Rosa’s boots was turning to ice, but she didn’t move. She adjusted her blue plaid flares and stared at the digital display: Next bus: #14 Down — 5 min.
Rosa had spent her life calculating the arrival of "The One." After years of being bruised by the wrong hands and lied to by silver tongues,
she had built a fortress around her heart. She wasn't just looking for a partner anymore; she was looking for a miracle. A man without flaws, a man who was perfect.
The air suddenly shimmered, smelling of ozone and burnt rubber. A sleek, stainless-steel machine—the DeLorean—materialized at the curb with a hiss of steam. The license plate read OUT OF TIME.
A figure stepped out. He didn’t look like a monster; he looked like the personification of Tomorrow. "Rosa," he said, his voice like the hum of a power grid. "You’re waiting for the wrong thing."
"I'm waiting for what I deserve," she snapped, chin held high. "The perfect man. I won't settle again."
The visitor sighed and gestured toward the billboard behind her. With a flick of his wrist, the advertisement rippled like water. The colorful graphics dissolved into a stark, skeletal reality.
"This is your 'Next Exit,'" the visitor said, pointing to the road sign beside the bench. "Your future isn't a person, Rosa. It’s a clock. You’ve spent so much time guarding yourself against the 'imperfect' that you’ve invited the only thing that is truly permanent: Nothing."
Rosa looked at the skeleton on the sign. It wore her favorite dress. It sat in her exact pose. It was a monument to a life spent waiting for a ghost.
"He doesn't exist," the visitor whispered as he stepped back into his car. "And while you wait for a man who has no flaws, you are missing the beautiful, messy, imperfect life that is passing you by right now."
The car roared, tires spinning as it vanished into a streak of light. Rosa sat alone again. The bus sign flickered: 1 min. For the first time in years, Rosa didn't look for a savior in the distance.
She looked at her own hands, wiped the frost from her jacket, and decided that "perfect" was a grave she wasn't ready to climb into just yet.