Roxy
952 Words
Roxanne Vega hated mornings because mirrors told the truth.
Nighttime was kinder.
At night, under neon beer signs and cheap perfume and old rock songs, she could still pretend she was dangerous. Men still looked twice sometimes. Liquor blurred the edges soft enough for fantasy. Darkness forgave wrinkles.
But morning?
Morning was cruel.
The bathroom light buzzed overhead while Roxy leaned toward the mirror, cigarette hanging from her mouth, black eyeliner smeared beneath tired eyes. Her roots were showing again. Tiny silver threads glimmered through the dark dye around her temples.
“Jesus Christ,” she muttered.
She opened the medicine cabinet, stared at the orange prescription bottle sitting beside a dried-up lipstick tube, then shut it again without touching it.
Outside, somewhere beyond the thin apartment walls, a bird called out—sharp, clear, alive.
Roxy paused.
A cardinal.
Bright red against the gray of everything else.
For a second, her face softened in a way she would’ve hated anyone to see.
“Hey there,” she murmured quietly, like the bird could hear her through glass and regret.
It was stupid, really. Talking to birds.
But she always had.
The apartment around her was silent except for an old ceiling fan clicking like tired bones.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The sink was crowded with half-used beauty products, dollar-store face creams, and tangled hoop earrings. A leopard-print blouse hung from the shower rod from the night before, smelling like cigarettes, sweat, and vanilla body spray.
Roxy grabbed it anyway.
Some women aged gracefully.
Roxy aged loudly.
She slipped into the tight blouse, sucking in her stomach before fastening the buttons. One button strained near her chest.
“Still got it,” she whispered to herself automatically.
But even she didn’t believe it this morning.
Her phone buzzed across the counter.
MIA.
Roxy stared at the screen until it stopped ringing.
A second later:
VOICEMAIL.
She rolled her eyes even though guilt immediately followed behind it like a shadow.
Her daughter always called too early, like people over thirty magically enjoyed being awake before noon.
Roxy shuffled into the kitchen, wincing when the cold floor touched her bare feet. Empty wine bottles sat beside the sink. An ashtray overflowed with lipstick-stained cigarette butts. On the small kitchen table sat a stack of overdue bills buried underneath old photographs.
In every picture, she was laughing.
Young.
Wild.
Wanted.
Roxy picked one up.
Big hair.
Red lipstick.
Leather skirt.
Some bar in Tulsa she barely remembered.
And there he was.
Danny Reyes.
One arm around her waist like she belonged to him.
God, she had loved him.
Or maybe she just loved the way he looked at her back then — like she was fire instead of wreckage.
Outside the kitchen window, something flashed red again.
Another cardinal.
Perched on the fence like it owned the world.
Roxy leaned closer to the glass without thinking.
“They always show up when I’m thinking too much,” she whispered.
The voicemail notification blinked again.
Roxy sighed and pressed play while digging through the cabinet for coffee.
“Mama,” Mia’s voice said carefully, already exhausted. “You missed dinner again.”
Roxy slammed the cabinet harder than necessary.
“I told you I was busy,” she snapped at the empty apartment.
The voicemail continued.
“You said you were coming this time.”
There was a pause.
Then softer:
“Eli kept asking where you were.”
Roxy froze.
Her grandson.
A sharp ache opened inside her chest so suddenly she had to grip the counter.
Damn it.
“You could at least call him back today,” Mia finished quietly. “Please don’t disappear again.”
The voicemail ended.
Silence filled the apartment like smoke.
Roxy stood there staring at nothing while the coffee pot sputtered weakly behind her.
Disappear again.
People always talked about her like she wandered off on purpose.
Like she enjoyed losing days.
Like she meant to forget things.
Some mornings her mind felt like a room with too many televisions turned on at once. Noise everywhere. Memories crashing into each other. Emotions so loud they drowned out common sense.
And some mornings — the worse ones — she couldn’t get out of bed because even breathing felt exhausting.
Nobody understood that part.
To everybody else, she was just dramatic Roxy.
Crazy Roxy.
Wild Roxy.
Too-much Roxy.
She lit another cigarette before the first one had fully burned out.
Outside the apartment window, the cardinal was still there.
Still watching.
Still red.
Roxy exhaled slowly.
“I used to run five miles without stopping,” she said quietly, like the bird had asked.
It didn’t respond.
Of course it didn’t.
But something inside her did.
A memory flickered:
Trail dust under her sneakers.
Wind tearing through her hair.
Her lungs burning in a way that felt clean instead of destructive.
The rhythm of her feet on dirt paths behind the old state park.
She had loved running once.
Not for fitness.
For escape.
And hiking?
She used to hike until her legs shook, just to feel small in a world that felt too loud.
Nature never asked her to explain herself.
It just let her be.
Roxy crushed the cigarette into the ashtray hard enough to break it in half.
Then she grabbed her purse, oversized sunglasses, and car keys.
Because sitting still was dangerous.
And if there was one thing Roxanne Vega had spent her whole life running from, it was silence.
As she stepped toward the door, she paused one last time.
The cardinal tilted its head.
Roxy gave it a small, tired smile.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “I see you too.”
Then she left.
- Writer
