There was a buzzing in my ears by the time I reached the door. I caught slips of conversations that weren't happening. Nicky reached for her keys, and I leaned against the porch railing for support. Our street was a cruddy little street, and for scenery, there's not much. Scrubby half-formed brush, cracked pavement. The amount of trees on the street I can count on both hands, and plastic bags hang, torn, caught in their branches. There aren't any houses- it's all apartments, and they're tiny ones. Some are two family, others are four. Ours is a three family, three apartments stacked atop one another. There's a nice part to living on the street though- Neptune Street.
At the end, there's a book store. It's small, cramped, and books are constantly falling off the slanted walls. I've never even seen the wallpaper, or what color the walls are, they're covered with shelves. There are clouded windows with unreadable peeling sticker lettering, and always pressed up against the glass is the fat white cat called Marzipan who always lays among stacks of books, trying to get some sun. The place has two-maybe three rooms, if there's a back room. It's falling apart and some of the books seem to be as old as dirt. The lady who owns it is old, wiry gray white hair and round glasses always falling of her face. Her attire is normally too big black corduroy pants, or shirts that look like they were left outside overnight. Old, and worn. She's very kind though, always smiling. I've spent many days there looking through books next to Marzipan, watching the store for her. Nobody ever comes in there, I'm not sure how she stays in business. If it weren't for the “BoOk STorE” sign in the front, I'd think that she lived there. Maybe she does, you never know.
Our apartment is on the opposite end of the street, but the same side. There's a yard in the back- something I haven't had since I was a kid, surrounded by a decrepit fence. Once, I found the neighbor's old orange cat rolling around on what I first thought to be a clump a gray-black lint. On further inspection though, I realized it was a dead mouse. The apartment is white, tall. It has 4 rooms, bedroom, living room, kitchen and bathroom. The house is old, and has defects, like the kitchen's slant, and how there's no heat in the bedroom in the winter. We don't have an air conditioner and the summer can be hell-but we are on the bottom floor.
When you walk in, as Nicolette was doing now-or stumble, as I was doing, through the front door, there's a hallway. To the right-stairs lead up to the next apartments. To the left- a small nook under the stairs with a washer and dryer (50 cents per load- Do NOT Overload Washer OR Dryer!!) And then, our door, fading wooden brown, straight ahead. We went in, to the living room- where the door opens into. On our right lay our laptops on creaking desks that threatened to collapse under the stacks of paper on top of it, (Nicky's writings, my drawings.) To our left, the TV hummed out meaningless chatter- reality shows, maybe the news. I couldn't tell. And in front of the TV, laying on the mini-couch- Nicolette's Love Interest, who greeted us with, “Sup.” I let go of Nicky's arm so I could stumble over to the couch and collapse. Nicky dropped her keys on the desk and turned to him. “She's pretty fucked up.” Gesture to me. “Don't even bother trying to make sense of anything she says. He snort-laughed. Nicky's Love Interest- Irish Man, as many called him, was slightly taller than Nicky- with brown-ish curly hair usually covered by a beanie. The hair on his face, a kind of scraggly beard was red-ish, and being Irish, (hence the name, Irish Man) his face had multiple freckles, and thin rectangular-glasses. He usually wore baggy jeans, but not like the 'gangsters', and his black military vest, along with hoodies.
Nicolette went to go sit on the couch with him. They were talking now- about what I wasn't sure, nothing was making sense to my ears- but everything was enhanced in my eyes. Colors- lights, everything seemed brighter, lines were clearer. I could see Nicolette's red energy, burning, almost like a halo. I laughed silently to myself. If there was anything that Nicky wasn't, she wasn't an angel. Nicky had orange-red hair, shortish, longer towards her shoulders and shorter, like a bob in the back. Her eyes were normally a deep chocolate brown, but other times, well, they gleamed purple.
