femme fatale, noel & liam gallagher

𝐱𝐱𝐱𝐯𝐢𝐢𝐢. 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐞

✧ 4th June 2003 ✧
New York City, USA

ANETTE JENKINS never accomplished what it meant to proportionate a piece of treasure and relish it as a team. Hand-me-downs were non-existent, the boxes of cereal were left to be conquered on her own, and her parents surprised the snobbish little girl with a brand new Beatles lunch bag that nobody had the privilege of touching. She was an only child and by God, the syndrome infected the untouched streams of her blood.

The words division and sharing meant nothing in her vocabulary. Never to be pondered of nor uttered. She was one unbearable individual to be around, and more often than not her inability to compromise and unbothered sense of generosity dumbed her down as unlikeable. It was a shock to their small town when the frontman of the hit song Take On Me dragged in a Bambi-looking girl——eventually crowning those eyes with marijuana, and that very curious creature of a teenage girl being the one to foster Anette into the meaning of generosity.

The Londoner's red swollen scarf glowed above two necks, books that gathered graveyards of dust were wiped clean, that precious lunch bag acquainted itself with a fresh set of melodic voice, her records found itself slipping into the Norwegian girl's damped school bag, and forgotten jewelleries were no longer.

As selfish as the two girls had grown to become, a blushed innocence within them always returned to the familiarity of Maia's bedroom floor—–Fleetwood Mac's 'Go Your Own Way' clouding the senses of their crumbled conversation on the blue world outside of the bordered room. Their heads aligned with the ground beneath them as the floors swallowed their bones in with the turfs of roots and soul. And somehow, they had never imagined that one day, they were bound to go their own way without each other.

The reserved seat next to Anette in the bar gradually became more and more unoccupied until it had no meaning all along, the glasses of double rum and coke stacked against a lonely invisible border on the other end of the table, the grains of her lipstick stain pressed on the rims of the cup transforming unnoticed with their naked eyes. The band had split into two and they could have done nothing to prevent it.

Anette mourned and lamented and watched the front woman's every move as though it was a substantial study that could refine the days she lived in. But it was futile from the second Maia walked out of the door in Argentina. They had made their un-reversible selection.

She chose Carti and Maia Harket settled with loyalty to herself.

You never did meet friends as the ones you did in your mellowed days, and Anette's escalating bemusement on how the dreams they scorched the skies for were now fielding into a nightmare was comprehensible. It made no utter good sense.

It should have. It should have clicked together and fueled itself into heaven. With Christian Cartier's roaming fingers fleshed into her hips, the broad stench of his Marlboro Lights that Kate Moss had hooked him up with, the growling Guinness menacing a long kiss in between his lips, it was a tale that every mossed penny in a water fountain could have lived up to. Yet the missing piece was how endangered things were with the front woman.