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"SUGAR PIE, HONEY BUNCH! YOU KNOW THAT I LOVE YOU!"
The Four Tops' greatest hit blasts from the depths of the brass pavilion, echoing through the thin, eggshell walls. A rustic lightbulb shines through the burgundy fabric, its shade casting a dark pink hue throughout the room.
Found scattered on the dark oak vanity are many, but necessary things: a strawberry-scented candle, its wick standing alone in a pool of fruity wax; an empty metal lunchbox to hold haircare and moisturizer; a spotless mirror, garnished in golden brass vines; a cluster of eyeliners wrapped in an elastic band; whoreish pink rouges and red lipsticks, a Playboy mag, and Marlboros locked away in a compartment, the key taped to the inside of the undergarment drawer.
Silk or lace nighties, frilly socks, and cheeky pantyhose. Hangers upon hangers of polka-dot dresses, pleated and plaid skirts, modest-cut blouses that are too sheer for Mother's taste. Blocked by a last-season fur coat is a pair of worn white Chucks and stacks of Grandpa's folded t-shirts.
Brown, black, and white Mary Jane heels are organized in favoritism, while slippers are kicked underneath the bed. A cream-soda-colored rug separates the cracked cherry oak wood floorboards and umber posts holding up the squeaky box spring.
Virginal white sheets, freshly cleaned, warm, and pressed, are haphazardly thrown and crumpled as the girl jumps on the mattress.
Rory sings off-tune, mostly lip-syncing along, pretending the handle of her hairbrush is a microphone, and her bedroom is a makeshift stage.
Her face stiffens as the light green gloss of cucumber melon starts to dry; her hair is tightly wrapped in curling rolls, and her skin is soft from the sweet-scented coconut oil. Her grandfather's old auto-mechanic tee swallowed her petite body whole, the perfect nightgown.
"Lorelei Anderson, turn that music off!" Her mother yells at the bottom of the stairs, before quickly realizing that she would have to climb the fourteen steps if she really wanted her house to stop shaking. Sighing in frustration, Mrs. Anderson walks back into the yellow kitchen where she spots her son figuring out this morning's Sudoku. Still dressed in the same khaki slacks and loafers but switched his sweater for a short-sleeve collar shirt, to combat the evening heat. His hair was in a frenzy, still stubborn about using curling cream.
"Randall," his mother starts, grabbing a cutting knife and a tomato to begin chopping up the vegetable for tonight's dinner. The steak still marinating in its stew, the mashed potatoes waiting for its gravy, and the salad bowl needs something else besides Thousand Isle.
She glances upwards, taking note of the grandfather clock across the foyer before watching the oldest reluctantly shift his tired eyes from the paper to hers. "Are you going out tonight?"
