You're My Kind Of Wrong

Chapter Seven

Elizabeth's Playlist for Chapter Seven:

▪︎ Promises - Sam Smith, Calvin Harris
▪︎ Mk - 17
▪︎Don't you - Simple Minds
▪︎ You should see me in a crown - Billie Eilish
▪︎ Youngblood - 5 Seconds of Summer
▪︎ Trouble - Taylor Swift
▪︎ Bodak Yellow - Cardi B
▪︎ Almost - Hozier
▪︎ Hair - Little Mix
▪︎ History - One Direction

Elizabeth

I had to leave Axton’s to go to work. As I left, I left heavy; I wish I could have prolonged my stay.

Now, walking down the movie-famous Fifth Avenue, looking for a place to get some more coffee, I can’t help but question my reasons. Axton has a pull on me, the attraction is imminent and inescapable. I can only wonder when I’m caving.

Despite not being nice customarily, in the last twenty-four hours, he’s been quite charming. I wouldn’t go as far as saying that amiability is his trademark; his killer smile and stare undeniably are.

I am unsure whether last night means we’re friends. Certainly, he doesn’t think we could be more than that. Right?

Like an answer from above, my phone vibrates. It’s Ax. Thanks for the pancakes, it says.

That’s cute, it hasn’t been long since I left, and he’s initiating further contact. Huh. What was I saying again about him not being friendly? Well, maybe friendly isn’t the appropriate word here, more like flirtatious; that’s better suited.

Thanks for the bed, I reply.

I am flirtatious myself, guilty as charged. Sue me, the man is hypnotizing; not even the Old Gods or the New Gods of Westeros would blame me for lack of judgment in this instance.

__________

I am barely on time for my radio show; I arrive out of breath and absentminded at the office. I push the door open, knocking the headphones off the tiny table and enter stumbling on forgotten chairs in my way. The office is a bit too small to be comfortable and when messy, more suffocating. Then, out of nowhere, I miscalculate and hit my pinky on a table leg. Shit!

I loathe getting the shift after Ryan; he transforms everything into mayhem. His mess is sprawly, its tentacles spreading everywhere. Not that I am an example of organization, but at least, I don’t leave furniture in people’s paths to be tumbled over. That’s a work accident waiting to happen for God’s sake.

I get to my booth relatively sound. Despite it being minuscule, I don't mind. It just means that nobody can enter while I'm here, thus, making it a safe place of sorts for me. This is where I can unwind and disconnect from my life outside these dark-painted walls.

I play my list in the midst of taking callers, playing requests and answering questions. That’s my routine in the show, I play songs, some chosen by me, some requests; people call and complain about their boring lives and heartbreaks; and occasionally, someone asks for advice.

Today, my head is in the clouds; better yet, it’s somewhere in the Upper East Side with some green-eyed Londoner, and my choices easily convey that. I jump from 80s nostalgia soundtrack “Don’t you forget about me", to fangirling One Direction’s “History”, going through Billie Eilish singing about burying people and finally landing on Hozier’s jazz references in “Almost”. I squeeze in some Elton John, Taylor Swift, Radiohead, Drake and Cardi B along the way, at some point.