narcick

I finally got out of bed and rolled a cigarette; the loose tobacco stuck to my moist fingertips, an inadequacy of mine that revealed itself in the spring. Perhaps it was an inadequacy in the seasons that had nothing to do with me.
A week before I moved in, Scout had painted the walls. She thought of it as a nice surprise, and she had been looking for an occasion to paint them. Unfortunately among other remains, she left them here. The light blue bedroom, the mint green kitchen, the pink bathroom, and the fucking living room. Her fondness for pastels was an indication that in the end things would not turn out.
The living room walls were this goddamned yellow. Yellow was only appropriate at times, in small doses. The fact my living room was yellow amused me; it mocked me as I went from my bedroom to the bath everyday. Its irony imposed on my living. It wasn't so bad when the weather was tolerable, though on cloudy days, one would not find me lazing around on the sunken sofa. The yellow absorbed the sadness of the weather. For in contrast, the colour was weak. It was a continuous reminder that such a colour was happy. And on a dark day, it had no substance. Nothing could be more funereal than that.
I had vaguely considered painting over them, a notion that tired me at the thought. I almost enjoyed the malignity of Scout's presence in the rooms. The scent of potpourri and mothballs in every closet or the reoccurring appearance of lipstick tubes under the sofa or bed.
I ran the bath and took off my robe, and continued to roll another cigarette; I liked to keep several in line to chain smoke. I arranged them neatly on the soap dish. The only reason why I stuck around this place was for the claw footed bathtub. I poured a fair amount of rosemary bath salt into the hot water and lit one of seven cigarettes. I sunk into the bath with regulated pleasure; since school had finished I had been taking baths every day. I had moved the record player into the bathroom on Tuesday; its use in my bedroom was to inflict pain on my toes and obstruct my right of way. The acoustics in the bathroom made far more sense.
My collection of vinyl was a form of snobbery; I took pride in the worn covers, and the undisputed taste of each album. It amused me whenever Scout invited friends over who found themselves subject to a sneer when conversations of musical preference arose.
There was a knock on the apartment door.
“Why do you knock? You are fully aware it's open.” How unimpressive. I appreciated boldness.
The door to the bathroom was slightly ajar and I could see Hadley slowly come in and look around at the empty apartment. “Jonathan, it’s Hadley.”
“I'm in the bath.”
She placed her head in the space the bathroom door was ajar, “I knock because I wouldn't want to walk in on anything indecent. It's so foggy in here; did you forget we had lunch?”
“Don't pretend to be prudish, and yes, you're going to have to wait anyway, I just got in.”
“I don't know what you're talking about; I just wouldn't want to walk in on some kind of situation.” She came in the bathroom and sat on the edge of the bath taking one of my cigarettes and lighting it. “I never really know what to expect whenever I come over here, one time I came over and some girl answered in barely anything, saying you were still asleep and asked me if I wanted to smoke some hash.”
“And did you?”
“Yes.”
“Then don't bother knocking.”
“You're being snappy this afternoon.”
“No, I'm just annoyed because I just got in the fucking bath and you come in here, smoking my cigarettes, talking about indecency and forcing me to come to lunch.”
“I didn't know it was such a hassle to take your little sister to lunch.” Hadley raised an eyebrow and splashed the bath water around.
“Ugh, God you're such a pervert, get out, get out.”
“Fine, I'm going to go down to the market and get some groceries so we can make lunch here. You've made a shithole out of this place since Scout moved out...Oh, I was wondering if you wanted to come to Evan Michael's party tonight.” Hadley made it a point to continually mention Scout, as she knew it was the one thing that I was sensitive about.
“Who's going to be there? Your little friends, those girls from your school?”
“Well probably yeah, Esmé, Laurel, Everett.” Hadley leaned on the frame of the door.
“Ah, sounds like a bit of fun. Laurel seems introspective, it's an important quality to look for when pursuing girls, and personally it's the first thing I ask myself, 'Is this girl introspective enough?' Though, it never really matters if you simply want to fuck them. ”
“Shut up.”
“I hear she's fairly intrepid as well, who's she been with?”
“I'm not going to let you near her; anyway she would probably give you a run for your money. She has many a suitor.”
“Don't be archaic, even when you're joking. I'm just saying I'd be interested, if I were into girls your age. ”
“You're being insufferable; I'm leaving for the market. If you're not careful, you'll shrivel in your own decadence.” Hadley scoffed, eyeing the bath water; she walked out of the apartment, slamming the door.
Hadley had always got it easier from our parents; I broke all the rules before she even got her braces off. She had this tendency to try dominating conversations; it was clearly unbecoming. Our parents had decided after I turned eighteen, their presence was no longer necessary. They were to be on a permanent vacation. Along with our weekly allowance, on holidays we receive decorative cards attached with a package or two.
Typically, we hate most gifts our parents send us. They fail to impress us with their wayward charm. We imagined our parents to be eternally tanned, wrinkled with enjoyment, on a beach at all times. Of course, we knew better.
The unspoken reason for leaving us in New York was to urbanize us, to leave us raised with freedom and money. It was a fairly liberal theory. To leave us to grow, drawing our own conclusions on life. Of course, Hadley and I surpassed the intellects of our peers and remained under the umbrella of nihilism.
To me, the idea of my parents was irritating.  Their shadows lingering upon my ideals, restricting me from what I want and what I crave.

by

Marlowe Tatiana Granados