ɪ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ.
Easily strung out, Cecelia Catton fled to Seattle on an
arrogant whim, chasing the scene by its ever-expanding tail. Forcing herself out from under the thumb of a failed marriage and stifling environment, the twen...
AMELIA WAS VAGUELY AWARE OF THE chaos that was occurring behind the locked door of her apartment. A fine rain had fallen atop Amelia on her walk home, her coat now lightly doused in a thin layer of water. Her peroxide-straightened hair had begun to waver in its perfection, causing small ringlets to hang just below her ears.
Her ascension up the stairs was interrupted by a somewhat tenuous conversation with hers and Celia's landlady.
"Goddamit Amelia, you've got to keep the noise down on weekdays," Mrs. Presley said in a tired voice. She was an old, plump woman who ordinarily left Amelia and Celia to their own devices. Except, of course, when a new noise complaint was filed due to the cacophonous lullaby that emanated out of their small apartment walls every Wednesday.
Their landlady was an exceedingly strange woman, she wore an apron everywhere and always insisted that everyone call her Mrs. Presley.
Neither Celia nor Amelia had ever seen or met Mr.Presley, so they liked to joke with their neighbours that Mrs. Presley wasn't a Mrs. at all, and that the reason she insisted on being called that was because of her undying love for the king of rock. It was an assumption built on fallacy and immaturity, yet Amelia couldn't help but smile every time she saw the woman.
"We're sorry Jean, please don't call the police on us." Amelia joked with her.
"If I don't," she said, stabbing her finger into her chest, "they will," she motioned to the other apartment doors in a hushed manner.
Amelia looked her over sceptically, simply nodding with a sweet smile, continuing her walk towards her apartment.
But before she could rotate her wrist fully, her landlady called out to her in a beseeching voice.
"And it's Mrs.Presley!"
Amelia barely smothered her airy laugh as she finally twisted the doorknob to its full capacity.
She was by no means prepared for the modern poetry that awaited her on the inside.
Three musicians were theatrically sprawled across her living room in various positions. Tangi, of course, was dramatically splayed atop the couch as if she was receiving a psychological evaluation and Ginny was slumped in a crumpled defeat against that same couch, her hands gripping her knockoff Martin which produced a sad, sombre melody.
But Celia was the most theatrical of them all. Her eyes were clamped together in a forced crease, her back hunched over their circular dining table, and her forehead pressed against the cool, wooden exterior of the table as if she were experiencing a full body ache.
