7. Chapter Seven

Rip

"Ridiculous," I mutter as I jam my leg into… "What are these, anyway?" I yell through the closed door of my room.

Rose set out some clothes on the foot of my bed when I was in the bathroom this morning. I must admit, a towel wrapped around my hips isn't fit for mixed company, but this? Other than having two legs, I can't figure out what they're made for.

"Beggars can't be choosers, big guy. The black things are yoga pants. They'll still look ridiculous, but they might be stretchy enough to cover those muscular legs of yours."

I lift and inspect them again, not believing the tiny things could ever fit over my body. A smile curls my lips when I realize she called me muscular. Perhaps the woman who has made it clear she wants to keep her distance isn't totally immune to my charms.

"The blue and white plaid number is sleep pants. They're made to be baggy. Those are the choices. Make do."

Someone's in a bad mood, I think as I jam my foot into the leg of the yoga pants. Taking a deep breath, I struggle to pull them up, thankful they're extra stretchy. Turning around in front of the mirror, I see my initial misgivings were right, but at least now I'm covered—mostly.

I leave my room and enter the living room. "Well, what do you think? Am I ready for town?"

"No. We need to get you a shirt first." After I put on something she called a beach cover-up, she says, "You still look ridiculous, but I'm afraid it's the best we can do."

Before we leave the house, she grabs a blue baseball cap and jams it onto her head after tucking her beautiful hair into it. It's almost as though she doesn't want to attract attention. Her expression hardens, as if she's daring me to ask about it. I guess we both have secrets from our past.

A few minutes later, she gives me the funniest look when I open her car door. She even releases a little giggle, as if my opening her door gave her a thrill.

"How gallant." The smile she flashes me tells me she's not teasing. She glides behind the wheel as I slide into the passenger seat of her car.

I'm an artist who sometimes imagined fairies and elves in my paintings, yet I never could have dreamed up anything like this car before I took my long nap. She even has to teach me how to use the seat belt.

"Why do I need this? Are you planning on crashing?"

"It's the law."

I don't complain. In fact, I suddenly pretend to be very dense so she has to lean over and buckle me in. Some of her hair has slipped out of the cap. The red highlights flash gloriously in the morning sun.

I don't pretend I'm not interested. If the prophecy is correct, she's the reason I woke from my slumber. She's my one true love. There's no reason not to take a deep whiff of her scent and then praise, "Roses. Of course pretty Rose would smell like one."

Instead of appreciating my compliment, she snorts. It seems women have changed a great deal in the last hundred years.

The car is silent as we drive to town. I'm not certain which technology is more impressive, the microwave or this. For a moment, I want to resist all the changes, wishing I was back in 1911. Then I square my shoulders, take a deep breath, and vow to embrace all the new developments I'm about to witness.

As we walk through a town alive with people, I can't help but gawk. It's like a circus, but instead of clowns and ladies on the tightrope, there are men, women, and children who all seem to either be talking into handheld devices or clutching paper cups.

As I lean closer to catch the aroma of the hot beverage carried by a teenage girl plastered in far too much rouge and cosmetics, Rose murmurs "Coffee from Sip and Smile. If you're good, I'll buy you one before we go home." Her giggle is full of mirth as she teases me, then she gets serious. "But first, we need to get you some pants. Pronto."

We enter the store and my breath catches when I see all the choices. The colors, fabrics, fits, and styles are overwhelming. Rose shops quickly. After having me try on a few shirts and pairs of pants, she darts from rack to rack, knowing instinctively what will look good. At least I hope so.

When we approach the counter to pay, Rose pulls out a little rectangle, smaller than a playing card, and passes it to the cashier.

"Credit card," she whispers, as if this transaction she's making is so commonplace, my ignorance of it will give away my secret.

I stare in awe at the little piece of plastic that causes a smile to spread across the shopkeeper's face as if it were actual money.

We grab some food at an odd little restaurant where no one waits on us. Rose explained we have to go to the counter to order. After choosing the sandwich I want, I'm more fascinated with the box of moving pictures on the wall than the food.

"Television. TV," Rose laughs. "Those are in every home and many businesses. It's entertainment. In fact, the little rectangles people are so engrossed in as we walk down the street? You can even watch things on them."

I don't want to appear the rube, but I can't contain my urge to shake my head in amazement.

After lunch, we continue our way through town. It's a pleasant place full of interesting shops we have no time for.

"With all these great shops, it's too bad there's no art gallery," Rose observes. "A touristy town like this could use one of those. Maybe one day it will be full of your paintings."

"And yours."

My praise surprises her, but we continue through town gathering necessities for me: new clothes, shoes, and toiletries.

There's only one person on Earth right now whose opinion I'm concerned with. Rose. With every upgrade to my appearance, Rose's smile broadens. For the first time in my life, I'm enjoying shopping.

Now that I'm dressed in the latest fashion of blue jeans and a black polo shirt that has a tiny embroidered moose on it, people have ceased staring at me, although I see one or two do a double take when they see Rose.

She seems tense and tips the bill of her hat lower.

For a moment, I wonder if I'll ever discover the secrets Rose is hiding, but then I let that worry go. Everything will unravel in due time.