Inspired by Botticelli's Primavera

By Sarah Vernetti

 Rose sank down in her seat even though she knew Ryan couldn’t see her through the tinted windows of her car. Just as she’d expected, at 8:03 a.m., he emerged from the casino, carrying his uniform under his arm and looking down at his phone as he walked across the employee parking lot.

Rose knew the time was right, and she approached him with confidence. Ryan finally looked up from his phone and squinted in the harsh desert sun.

“I can’t do this anymore,” said Rose, the words coming out with such force that they were accompanied by a ray of sunlight. Her lips parted further, and the tiniest sparrow emerged from her mouth.

Next came a delicate vine dotted with flowers: roses and periwinkles and oleanders. They kept going, their size increasing as they made their way toward the ground. The vine coiled at Rose’s feet, a pile of springtime lying there for the curious onlookers to ponder.

Rose knew her ordeal had almost reached its end when the green vine gave way to scraggly roots. Finally, she coughed, and a handful of the darkest, richest soil burst from her mouth in a small cloud.

Everyone stood in silence. Such vibrant flowers are rare in the desert. Ryan, in particular, looked at her with disgust. His co-workers muttered among themselves, except for one woman who ran back into the casino, claiming she was “going to find help.”

The security guards approached her with caution. She didn’t resist when they led her away. After all, she’d merely told the truth, exchanging one form of freedom for another.