The Dreams We Keep - EDITING

Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

The polished silver BMW slid to a stop behind my mom's Corolla, its lights reflecting off the dented back bumper and illuminating the snow covered driveway that's adjacent to our house. It was 6:00 a.m. on Friday morning, the dingy streetlights casting a faint yellow-hued glow on my small neighborhood, casting eerie shadows that swayed on top of the snow covered yards, like monsters lurking in nightmares. The winter storm that buried our sleepy town in a less glamorous version of a snow globe finally ceased last week after accumulating over 2 feet of white powder, on top of the already 10 inches of snow that has been lingering since New Years.

For the past two hours I've been nervously perched on the old, lumpy sofa that's pressed up to the bay window that overlooks our front lawn, awaiting today's events like one would a colonoscopy. The stress and anticipation of today caused me to toss and turn with nightmares all night. By 4AM, I gave up, got out of bed and made a pot of coffee. Three cups and endless daydreams later, Miss Eve has finally arrived.

I watched Miss Eve step out of the sleek vintage BMW, wearing a slim white peacoat that stops just below her hips and dark form-fitted pants that tuck neatly inside tall black riding boots. How is it that she looks ready to shoot an L.L. Bean catalog at this ungodly hour of the morning? Heck, who am I kidding, she always looks catalog ready.

I glance down at my own outfit, feeling a bit undressed in comparison. I have on my trusty black skinny jeans that tightly hug my every curve, and a charcoal gray cable knit sweater that was a birthday gift from my mom a few years ago. The sweater is a little long in the sleeves but otherwise fits me well and is one of the nicest items hanging in my measly closet. On any other day, you'd find me donning a band tee, one of my dad's plaid shirts wrapped around my hips, my favorite pair of faded ripped mom-jeans and my well-loved black vans. Nothing fancy; nothing that shouts, "Look at me!" - because the last thing I need is to draw unnecessary attention to myself. Been there, done that, didn't like it. Laying low and going about my own business is more my style.

Besides, comparing the way I dress to Miss Eve is nonsensical - Miss Eve is probably one of the best dressed women in our town, considering it's mostly blue collar workers filling vacancies at the Lumber Mill. Wearing designer clothing is not often found in our realm.

I pull open the front door just as Miss Eve steps onto the dilapidated porch that is shadowed by the monstrous oak tree in the yard, its branches bare and looming, reminding me that I still need to add fixing the front porch light to my never-ending to-do list.

"Ellie!" She shrieks, ignorant to the fact that she could wake the whole neighborhood, and wraps me in a hug, the cold still lingering on her coat sending a chill up my spine. Her hair smells of vanilla and sweeps in long layers past her shoulders. Miss Eve is always so well put together and unapologetically beautiful. It's a wonder no man has swept her off her feet. Though I'd imagine no one would hold a candle to the love she has for her music; dedicating her whole life to sharing and teaching it.

"Good morning, Miss Eve." I whisper, so as to hint that we should really be using our inside voices this early in the morning. I release her tight hold and close the front door with a solid thud.

Her chestnut eyes take me in, then roam to the rest of the house, lingering on the untouched boxes stacked in the living room and piles of trash bags that peek out from the kitchen entrance.

"How are you doing, honey?" She says, her eyes roaming back to me, taking in my features and mentally assessing me for external clues of distress.

"I'm feeling good. A little nervous, though." I say, tucking my long dark locks behind my ear and dropping my head to look at my sock feet that have little music notes on them.