Roxanne the Razor only opens her mouth to speak when the timing is just right because if she isn't careful, then she's too loud, too rude, too angry - or so they say. In the dark corner of a smoky underground dive bar, Roxanne brushes someone else's cigarette ash off her one-of-a-kind pink and red wax print jumpsuit, grabs the same old tote bag she takes everywhere and tries to make her way to the bar. She tries to move slowly, from shadow to shadow, because when she is in the spotlight, everybody can't help but stare.
They're always staring, and yeah, she's hot as hell, but is it 'cause she's gorgeous or because they're scared of her? Roxanne doesn't have the time to work that shit out.
When she moves through the room, Roxanne leaves a trail of orange blossom essence floating through the air, just like her dad used to pat carefully behind her ears when she was born. Everyone thinks she's trying to lure them in, but she's just trying to fucking exist.
From the dive bar to the coffee shop, that picnic bench in the park, or just walking to the grocery store - it's all eyes on Roxanne. The people who look Roxanne in the eye never really see her. They ask her: "what am I supposed to do now?", "isn't this enough?" and "what more do you people want?" Tired of having the same conversation over and over, she knows when it is time to use her voice and when to speak low, loud and clear. And when she chooses to speak, trust that you will fucking listen.
They call her the Razor because her tongue is so sharp, it will cut you if you cross her. Everyone always thinks she's so rough, "hey Roxy" they whisper – nobody makes eye contact, but they are always looking. Why does she always carry around that small brown notebook and that hotel pen?
When she doesn't feel like speaking, she just looks up slowly, midnight sky eyes straight into theirs without reacting. Roxanne just taps, taps, taps, taps her pointed red nails on the sticky surface of the bar. The sound reflecting from her fingertips to the low concrete ceiling, to their hollowed-out skulls.
The Razor doesn't need to make you bleed for you to know it is sharp – she's just as good at walking away, but her scent lingers on. But as she walks away, her phone starts to ring to The Way You Look Tonight by Ella Fitzgerald "Hey Ma, I've been dying to talk to you. How've you been?".
Written by Haneen Martin Mahmood and Isobella Caruso