anobrain // narry au

so

chapter two. fiveohfive.

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It took some time getting use to, but I rather enjoy early Monday mornings. Waking up to a day that's already waiting for you is a breath of fresh air — Monday is a breath of fresh air. A chance to redo a harsh or even great previous week before the zeros line up for a new day.

IT'S ANOTHER MORNING WITH Harry. He's been here since Friday and it's now Monday. Monday morning — a silent chant for every pupil to awake for school. But this Monday morning differs from the rest: I'm usually alone getting ready for school. And eating at the kitchen table solely before locking the entrance door and beginning on my ten minute walk into the loud Manchester town.

Instead I'm getting ready in my bedroom to the off-tune sound of Harry's voice, singing every wrong lyric to the Arctic Monkey's 505. Yet his tone is confident, and prominent, and the running water does nothing to drown out the throaty sound of his horrid singing. And neither does the closed door to both rooms -- and the bathroom is located down the hall from my bedroom for fucks sake --. All the same I find myself smiling.

I mean of course he's singing in the fucking shower, in someone else's home.

Then I'm reminded of my perspective on a friend, a high comfort level. And maybe Harry feels the same around me as I feel around him, his most infinite. He should feel that way: comfort on top of comfort piled above assiduity.

I'm reminded of a time back in primary school, when I was first starting out, of differentiation. It was innocent and I was only around six but the amount of children around my age unwilling to be my friend because of my Irish accent, because I was -- and still am -- different, aroused discomfort. That uncomfortable feeling diminished when I met friendly Harry and friendly Zayn too, and we quickly became friends.

The shower stops as I'm pulling on a Nike grey sweater to protect me from the colder autumn air today -- It seems as if winters appearance will be quicker than expected since we're only in our final weeks of September. -- The familiar treading footsteps towards my bedroom are heard and Harry appears in the doorway with a towel wrapped tightly around his toned abdomen. A precaution taken by Harry since before, once upon a time not long ago, his towel fell and pooled loosely around his ankles when him and Cara bumped into each other as she was on her way to the bathroom and Harry was just departing.

Profanities were yelled, chuckles and loud laugher were enunciated. and rules were established: a towel must be wrapped tightly around the abdomen and/or chest. A strict rule quoted from the one and only Cara Delevingne.

Stubbornly and immaturely and, how is she a professional model when she's beyond aggressive? Lacks table manners and is constantly scolded for being such a slob. How can she prance down various red carpet events in seven inch heels, succeeding at owning every runway and front cover of high fashion magazines, when my own sister has underwear on every inch of furniture that's not even in her room? And –