In 1974, Calia West, an on the rise New York artist meets Queen, a newly popular band, on their first tour of the USA. After becoming quick friends with each of the dashing frontmen, Calia finds herself growing attached to a certain bold-faced sing...
I hadn't planned on leaving my apartment until after I was sure Queen was far away from New York. It was petty and immature to try to hide from them sure, but I had never felt as embarrassed as I had backstage. If Brian and Freddie could be so childish I was perfectly happy to act the same.
No matter how much I thought things over, I couldn't explain the aching I had knowing Freddie was still in town. He had embarrassed me, he'd been an asshole to me on multiple occasions, how could I still have wanted to be around someone like that. I hated the person Freddie had made me into.
I hadn't had any luck getting a good nights sleep, so I settled for working on Mrs Buffay's painting. I was rather happy with the finished product, though I couldn't help but paint my emotions into the piece. I was bent out of shape about the whole situation.
I knocked loudly on my neighbours door, knowing she wouldn't be able to hear me if I had been delicate with it. I heard her bumbling around and then finally saw the door knob turning.
"Oh hello dear!" Mrs Buffay smiled, opening the door widely once she recognized me, "It's a rather early morning for you isn't it, only half past 7," she went on happily. It was always apparent just how much she appreciated my company.
I held the framed canvas behind my back, I knew how happy she'd be as soon as I gifted it to her, "I thought I'd stop by nice and early given you've been waiting for this for so long," as I spoke I brought the painting out from behind my back and presented it to her.
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"Oh my. Callia this is just beautiful," she gasped, taking the gold frame in her hands with delicate admiration. She always treated my art with such value and appreciation. After taking a few more moments to look over the painting, she looked up to me with a smile that wrinkled all of her face, "would you like to come in dear? I don't imagine you've had breakfast already," the older woman asked. I could easily tell how much it would mean to her.
I nodded quickly, "I thought you'd never ask." I followed her back through the door and into the small apartment, "do you need any help to put it up?" I asked. Her apartment was cluttered and cramped, it was the same layout as mine but felt half the size. But her house was most certainly a home, with photos and my paintings covering the walls. She had rugs everywhere and warm lighting. Even a big fat tortoise shell cat named Lottie, who slept on a rocking chair in the living room. Mrs Buffay loved to call herself a collector and I had to agree, she'd collected me right from when I moved in.
Bumbling through the front hallway to the kitchen, the older woman seemed to have no knowledge of her surroundings, brushing against things, knocking things over the whole way through.
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