The girl next door, they had called her. Rose wasn’t sure whether she loved or despised the name, but she knew it was far better than the names drunk, middle-aged men with beer bellies spat at their teenage daughters. She wore a red and white poka-dot dress, scarlett converse and cotton tights - she could never seem to wear those thin, revealing tights that emptied your pockets with the number of holes they acquired. A delicate, prettily manicured hand stirred the strawberry and vanilla milkshake with a straw, always nonchalant, always slow. A book sat limply on the table, Rose occasionally turning its worn, strangely sweet-smelling pages. She adored this place, with its openly gay waiter and calm, fairytale interior, but today her mind was elsewhere.