Postcards from Places with Red Roofs. // h.s

With love from, Stockholm.

'Trust is such a funny idea. To have full faith in someone to be something, and they're often not. To have no concerns of their true nature, to believe them at face value. Don't you think? Someone you regard as your friend could as easily as the wind blows, change direction, and go against you. The idea that someone would have full faith in my behaviour is not only unbelievable but also terrifying. Perhaps, this is why I have no friends. I suspect I'm overthinking this, but I just cannot comprehend fully trusting someone, ever. 

Yours, 

Quinn xx'

These words are reverberating in my mind at the minute. I mentioned to Amy the idea of attending university, albeit late, to which she replied, "Now? Quinn, you're twenty-three! It's a bit late, sweetheart." 

She's not the first to question my decisions, but it stings when merely a week or so ago, she was preaching about putting myself 'out there'. Truthfully, I think Amy is simply acting as a mouthpiece for my mother. It's no secret that she's worried about me. The daily texts and voicemails prove this point. 

Shaking my head, I attach a stamp and make a mental note to post it after work. Starting to get dressed, I start playing music as loud as my smashed-screen phone will allow. I swing my lanyard around my neck, cringing at the itchy material strangling me. I start brushing my teeth, lightly kicking on Amy's door to wake her up. The grunt of annoyance makes me swiftly turn on my heels and walk back to the kitchen. I didn't get much, if any, sleep last night, and I fear the day may be worse than the night today. 

It's in Amy's car when I first break my silence. I had refused to speak to her after she grabbed my university hopes and splatted them on the ground, dancing on them like a sand-dance. 

"I'm sorry, Q."

I scoff at her apology and turn to look outside the window. There aren't many cars at 8 am on a Sunday, but there's plenty of things to pretend to look at. Tree. Tree. Abandoned shopping trolley. Tree.

"Quinn, I really am sorry. It's not my place to tell you what to do. If you want to go to university, you do that." I glance at her in my peripheral vision and see no signs of humour on her face. 

"It's fine. Was a stupid idea anyway."I slump my face into my palm and continue looking outside the window. Soon enough we arrived at my personal hell. I donate 8 hours of my time, once a week, for basically nothing. Suffice to say, I hate it here. 

"Have a good day Q!" I slam the door behind me, practically jogging to get inside on time. I clamber up the seemingly endless amount of steps before taking a deep breath, and opening the door to the shop floor. Almost immediately I see my boss, Joe and try to stop myself from sighing. 

It's a barrage of questions and complaints from the offset today. 

"Where's the butter?"

"I've just smashed a bottle."

"Can you just check if you have any out the back?"

It's a public service to stop myself from screaming. 

It's around 3 pm when I see a mop of blond hair darting from aisle to aisle, as if looking for someone. Automatically, I freeze. My eyes follow them as they dash, seeking their prey. I quickly step off my ladders and nervously look around. Upon seeing the same man running my way, I lose all sense of reason. My mind flicks through various possibilities as I watch the determined man walk down the centre aisle, eyes flicking over everyone he sees. Odd.

It's a completely mundane two or so hours before I get back into Amy's car. I'm fully aware of my heavy breathing, and Amy seems to notice this and simply turns on the radio. My fitness level is below average, I'd assume, and the three sets of stairs on the way out always take it out of me. The only exercise I do is a ten-minute walk to the postbox and back every week or so. I also have to speed out down the stairs to ensure that Amy doesn't leave without me, which she often threatens when I take too long leaving work.

I hear you, yes it would be easier if I learned how to drive. But, you see, it's a bit more complex than that. I never wanted to learn how to drive, but my mum was pretty relentless with her speeches of how 'it's a life skill' and 'it's easier to learn when you're young!' Before I completely panicked and nearly crashed the driving instructor's car, I lasted five or so lessons. I was politely told that I should wait for a while before starting to learn again. The whole ordeal scarred me; I haven't returned behind the wheel. 

Once I return home, I pick up the postcard and leave the flat. Amy doesn't know where I go, or why, but she's aware that I like to go alone and not to pry. This one is headed to London. Seeing as that was where I was intending on studying, I thought it was only fitting. Walking back from the postbox, I notice a small commotion around the local theatre. There are a dozen or so people situated outside the stage door, seemingly very excited. There's a ripple of gossip spreading amongst the young girls, and I couldn't help but feel warm inside. 

I love going to concerts and seeing people who love doing their job. If I had a job that paid well, and that I had more than an 8-hour a week contract for, I'd love to start going to some again. As I turn the corner, I hear high-pitched screams from behind me, and I can't help but crack a small smile at their joy.