The Memories We Made

Ch.1

The elevator clanks and shudders as it goes down, my floor the highest one so I wait for quite a while, slipping my earbuds in, La La Lands, "Another Day of Sun" pounding in my ear.

I tap my foot to the beat, singing along a bit, "Without a nickel to my name. Hopped a bus, here I came~"

A chiming sounds, my song dimming in volume as a notification comes through, my phones screen lighting up, showing that Joey had texted me, saying he couldn't make it.

I sigh and unlock my phone, my background a picture of me and my mom, her ebony locks draping over my shoulder as we laugh right before falling into the squelchy sand.

Opening my messages, Joeys angular face appears in a picture, his face apologetic as he walks through Town Square, a tall blonde walking beside him, ice cream cone from Ben & Jerry's in hand.

"Son of a gun, he left me for a girl," I mumble, turning off my phone right as the elevator comes to a stop, the shuddering going to a minimal shaking.

Putting on my earbuds again, I step out of the elevator and onto the ivory linoleum floor, my red heels clicking as "New Rules" by Dua Lipa starts.

The lobby is made up of shades of brown, the lounge chairs a vomit green, clashing with the bright red poppies sitting on top of a glass wrought iron table in the center.

'Out of my mind, out of my mind', I sing in my head, the words a mantra of mine when it comes down to relationships, not that I've had many, I muse.

"EVA! YOU'RE PACKAGE'S HERE!" a voice with a southern twang drawls as my hand grips the metal door handle to exit the lobby. Turning around, I see that it's only the clerk, bright eyed and bushy tailed, the perfect girl.

"Jesus, Eva, you should be more responsible! What if I hadn't told you?" she drawls, a smirk framing her red lips.

The perfect girl until she opens her mouth that is.

I plaster a smile onto my face, sarcasm lacing my words, "Oh, what would I do without you, Angela?" which she only answers with another one of her trademark smirks, holding out the cardboard box in her hand, the top splayed with my name.

Before she can keep me there for any longer, I snatch the small box out of her manicured hands, waving haphazardly behind me as Dua mourns, 'but my love, he doesn't love, so I tell myself, I tell myself, I do I do I do!'

As the creaky wooden door closes behind me, New York comes to life right before my eyes.

Across the street, women are hailing a taxi, their cigarettes dangling from their fingertips, smoke coating the air around them.

A group of tourist weave their way around the locals, gaping at Yarina, one of the many oddities that live in my complex with her bright yellow coat, baby blue crop top that shows the expanse of her hairy stomach, and exaggerated striped leggings that hug the right things, as well as the bulge that identifies her as a man.

I smile and pull the package closer to me as I pass a group of 14 year olds hanging outside of the complex, gaping at the New York Times that lays in the hands of a girl with bright blue hair.

Not to mention the noise.

Honking and shouts is a kind of local music, always there, but not always enjoyable, although it puts me at ease.

Getting a glimpse of a couple kissing in an alley, I hurry along, a blush coating my nose, as I walk, my short legs making me slower than the average person.

I've always thought that New York is a kind of place where people express themselves, where people can be themselves, although most would contradict me (ahem. Joey.) and say that Los Angeles is where it's at, although I stand to disagree.

My heart picks up as I see in the distance, next to my favorite coffee shop, Bluestone Lane, is Blue Photography, it's exterior design a breathtaking blue, the sign a swirling calligraphy, Blue Photography, let's make it happen.

I grin and pick up my speed (remember, shorty,), tripping over my heels a bit as I cross the traffic ridden street, a few curse words thrown at me, although I'm not listening.

All I keep thinking in my head is please, please, please, as I stop in front of the building, the windows framing the building showing my reflection, a girl in a jean jacket, striped pants, white canvas shirt with a cactus on it, and red heels.

But that's not what catches my attention.

It's my expression: nervous.

Shaking off my doubts, I walk up to the steps and push the door, instantly seeing the familiar interior of Blue Photography.

The first time I came here, I had been 16 and on a field trip for my photography class, when I wanted to take pictures for The New York Times, thinking this place was nothing more than an over hyped photography company.

I grip the small package in my hands as I walk to the front desk, the sleek woman behind it looking at me suspiciously as I do so, her eyes a chartreuse with flecks of gold around the pupil.

Smiling at her, I put my hands on the table, "Hi, I'm here for an appointment with Mr. Wells?" I ask politely.

She only raises an eyebrow as I give her my name and looks down at her ivory computer, sipping a bit of tea from a mug full of Snoopy the dog.

Her voice sounded as sleek as she was as she looked up, a hawk like glint in her eye as she looked my face up and down, from my auburn hair to my steel gray eyes, "Ah, yes, Mr. Wells will call you up when he's ready... Ms.Ulysses."

Laughing nervously, I back away and to the small waiting room, the chairs looking unsuitable for sitting with it curves and dainty legs.

Sitting safely on a love seat, I grab a Vogue magazine off the navy blue table, the cover consisting of a young man, most likely my age, with an amused glint in his eye as he looks straight at the camera.

His face is made up of shadows, but I can easily see his blue eyes shining in the dark.

I sigh longingly, if only I could take a picture of him, he'd look better out in the sun surrounded by trees and sunshine.

Flipping through the magazine, I quietly critique the other photos, not enough light, too awkward, weird clothing.

"Ms. Ulysses?" a deep voice asks, above me, his voice laced with amusement as I look up.

Mr. Wells is a large man with steel gray eyes like my own and jet black hair, his face usually gracing the front of Photography magazines, as I have read through those magazines on my free time.

I gasp in surprise, blushing a bit as I practically fall out of my chair, "Uh- ah, yeah, I'm Eva."

Straightening up, I smile hesitantly as he speaks, his voice even more amused at my little show, "Ah, yes, the girl that came here last week, practically begging my intern to let her in."

I blush and fiddle with the leather lanyard of my camera as I nod.

Mr. Wells only laughs as he turns around, heading to a door, his only indication for me to follow is a nudge towards the door, a gold emblem saying: William H. Wells.

Hurrying towards the door, I straighten my jacket, my camera swinging.

When I enter the room, unlike the lobby, the rooms aesthetic is a smoky gray. Gray desk, black and white photos, gray walls, and of course, the gray eyed man sitting ominously in the chair behind the desk.

Mr. Wells flashes me a white toothed smile, brightening up his face, "Please, do sit, Eva."

I nod and take a seat in one of the uncomfortable chairs from the lobby, the hard plastic biting my butt as I lay the small package on my lap.

His eyes glint, like he knows I'm uncomfortable, but he's too amused to say anything, "So, my intern has told me that you want to be a Blue Photographer?"