The Strip

Part 8

FREEN POV:

You turn the knob of your stereo to the right, cranking the music until the rhythm reverberates through your bones.

You spin through your kitchen, twirl through your hallway, and throw your leg out to the side as you let your body be taken by the beat back to your art room.

Your wayward foot connects with a can of paint as soon as you enter, accidentally sending shades of green splattering across the drying canvas on your floor.

You pause for just a beat to soak in the painting now - and, of course, it looks so much better with the flecks and lines and dollops of green, illuminating the breathtaking green eyes of the subject.

A smile creeps ever higher on your cheeks, and you close your eyes again, tugging on your white smock and get back to the groove. You feel like you're a part of the movie, Risky Business, when you run through the hall and slide in your socks along the hardwood into the living room, a bout of giggles exploding from your lips.

Giggles . Actual giggles.

You kick your leg out, knocking your foot against the corner of the coffee table and sending your well-loved sketchbook flying. The papers - with charcoal outlines of jaws, and eyes, and lips, and the curve of a particular set of hands - cascade to the floor slowly, as though you're inside a snow globe, the soft flutter of the artwork is the snow.

It's a beautiful moment. Because you feel beautiful. You feel something you haven't in a long, long time - happy. Deep, in your belly, overwhelming happiness that has you drifting to a faraway place.

That's why you shriek - absolutely shriek - when you spin around again, mid strumming your air guitar, and see Sophia, wide eyes and brows raised in front of you.

"Jesus Christ, Rey! I'm taking your fucking key away." You clutch at your heart and double over, panting wildly and smearing more rainbow across your smock. You collapse into a heap on the coffee table, ruined with your paint covered hand leaving a print on the side.

She yells, "I called your name like three times."

"You're fucking lying," you yell back. You know she's lying because she must be lying. You weren't that distracted, were you?

Maybe you were.

You think about bright green eyes and smile. You definitely were.

Sophia laughs. "I am."

You roll your eyes and shove your best friend's shoulder, pushing past her to the stereo and turning it down so you can hear her. She takes off her red leather jacket and throws it onto your couch, leaving her in a simple black tank and leggings.

"Do you want a drink? Hungry?" You assume she just came from the gym.

Her wide eyes slowly narrow into accusatory slits. You shrug when she doesn't respond, and move into the kitchen, opening the fridge and popping the top off a beer, holding it out to your best friend.

Sophia eyes it warily, hand reaching out slowly to take the drunk from you. "Oooookay," she says. "Thanks."

You take out a drink for yourself and hop up onto the kitchen counter, taking a swig of the bubbly brew and letting out a satisfied, "ah". You swing your feet aimlessly, mind drifting to the next piece you want to create. You pick at the label of the beer while you think.

Sophia, eyes still narrowed, takes a small sip of beer and scrutinizes you.

After a full minute of silence, Sophia snaps, "Okay, who are you and what have you done to Freen?" She throws her hand up in the air and slams the beer bottle down on the counter with her other, the frothy white head of beer bubbling up to the neck.