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🎶 happiness is a butterfly - lana del rey
scene eight
"What do you know about this Bishop Cullen?", I drag the seat next to Esther to allow myself space to sit down next to her, having found her dark hair from across the room. The entire morning, my eyes have search for the aforementioned boy, with dark hair and dark eyes, with a sultry attitude and a sense of entitlement that impersonates golden bars. Esther looks up from the lettuce leaf between her fingers, where she was snacking on it alongside her tuna salad that will hopefully be hidden by sprays of expensive perfume and sticks of bubblegum.
"Hello to you too, Odette", the girl greets me with a sarcastic twinge in her voice, the kind we greet friends with. Funny, I believed us to be more acquaintances than friends. I still do.
"Yes, hello, hello", I wave impatiently, rolling my hand forward to encourage her to speak faster, to feed into my biased curiosity. Esther can tell me that Bishop Cullen feeds hungry children in his spare time, and I'd find a way to antagonize him. Esther breaks the lettuce leaf through its middle, tossing the one side into her bowl.
"Why are you so curious about Bishop Cullen, especially after I told you his personality impersonates that of a hemorrhoid - painful and shitty", Esther asks while stabbing the air with her plastic fork, questioning my intentions. I reach for the jug of water in the middle of the dining table, pouring myself a glass of it and appreciating it when a slice of lemon falls into my glass.
"He happens to be my composer", I sigh into the glass of water I lift to my lips, before taking a smoothing sip. Esther makes a sound of amusement, not snorting as that would be unlike the fine students of St. Catherine, and pushes her half-eaten plate away.
"Of course he is. My deepest apologies, dearest Odette, you might as well resign now!"
That would be significant, wouldn't it, to resign due to a difficult composer? But it would be quite awful of me, wouldn't it, to be an impossible instructor? Would that be possible? Esther decides to turn the conversation to our year's composer, or the lack thereof. Honestly, I do want to listen, but imagining myself on that stage with my peers, dancing along with them to the sound of my own heartbeat, is a knife turn into stone. It burns my side, so I decide to let her words fall like autumn leaves.
My gaze trails along the dining hall, almost bored with the conversation I created, when I see him - Bishop Cullen. The boy who seemed as if he drags fallen angel wings behind him, weighed down with the reality of living amongst mortals and their morals.
