"I've told you time and time again," Claire mutters moodily as she shuffles back into our bedroom "that you need to seriously consider purchasing an alarm clock."
"Why? I've got you to wake me up." I mumble as I sit up in my messy bed and pull back the pale blue sheets.
Claire rolls her heavily lidded mint green eyes at me and purses her thin mouth in annoyance. "Someday I'm going to 'forget' to wake you up." Claire uses air quotes to emphasize her point.
Claire's threat is, as always, meaningless. I know as well as she does that we have an unspoken agreement. Claire is in charge of keeping me out of trouble, as long as I attend to the upkeep of the apartment. Fortunately for Claire, I spent practically my entire childhood cleaning, cooking and caring for my grandma. And fortunately for me, Claire likes being boing bossy.
"You could." I agree. "But you won't." I say as I turn from her to hide my smirk. I hear Claire sigh irritably. My smirk breaks into a full on grin.
With an almost inaudible grumble, I tiptoe across the icy wood floor and pull open the closet door.
The left side of the small, walk-in closet is devoted to my minuscule amount of clothing. Without looking, I reach up to the narrow shelf and pull down a folded pair of battered, light wash jeans. Beside the stack of jeans sits a large photo album and a few pairs of worn in shoes. Without glancing at the photo album, I grab ahold of a plastic hanger and wrench the soft, crimson sweater that hangs there.
I stopped caring about clothes about the same time I learned to tie my shoes. Most of my clothes are hand-me-downs from various relatives and neighbors. In fact, the last time I bought myself an article of clothing was the itchy, velvet, knee length dress I wore to my grandfather's funeral three years ago.
"Aren't you ready yet?" Claire asked, now standing in the doorway of the bathroom that adjoins our bedroom wearing her silky, pink bathrobe..
In one hand, she holds a red, plastic comb and in the other, she clutches the remote control to the television in the living room. Her sopping, short black hair hung limply around her shoulders.
Hastily I pull on the red sweater I had been fumbling with. "Nearly," I mutter as I step forward and pluck the remote control from her hand. "I'll take this, drippy."
"No fair, my hands are wet." Claire calls after me as I slip past her into the hall.
I turn around and tiptoe backwards down the hall, sticking my tongue out in response. A sudden stab to my side stops me short. Slowly I turn around, clutching my hip and push aside the rolling chair that Claire obviously left in the mouth of the hallway. A small burst of giggles comes from the direction of our bedroom.
"Claire," I mutter to myself as I straighten my shoulders and walk into the dimly lit living room.
When I walk in, the television is already tuned into our local news station, New York News. The newscaster, a tan, dark haired woman with a fully made up face is standing in front of an alley, swarming with emergency vehicles. Behind her, two medics carted away a body bag.
My empty stomach gives an involuntary lurch. As if in a trance, I turn up the volume and fall into the slouchy armchair by the window.
"Late last night, Jenny Ross was found in the alley behind me." The newscaster turns slightly and gestures behind her with a hand, an overly sympathetic look on her face. The camera zooms out to take in the scene.
The hand not clutching the remote control rises to my mouth because I recognize that alley. I travel through that alley every day as I walk to work. If I peer out of the window beside me, I may even catch sight of the news crew.
