Snippet #2458733

Dark velvet drapes covered the bay windows, the only illuminate in the entire apartment being the flickering television that had been on the same channel since the night before. Amil had begun a criminal minds marathon, only to fall asleep and wake up to a house marathon, which only the humorless could say no to. She had only gotten up from her couch to piss and to grab some snacks from the kitchen. Her hair, varying shades of a rich teal, was starting to become greasy and had been thrown into a sloppy ponytail on top of her head, face stripped of makeup and with an expression that read ‘I don’t give a fuck’.
She had been holed up in her house for a few days, enjoying the time to herself. Spending all last week at a shoot for some skate brand, Amil was burnt out on forcing smiles and having to maintain the image of an ‘inked doll’. She returned to the Bronx, went to the grocery store to stockpile goodies, then dressed in her comfiest clothes to begin her mini vacation in the comfort of her own home. Her lean frame still sported the same, shapeless sweats and tee, most likely trophies from some friend who left them behind. Half empty glasses and dirtied plates stacked on the leather coffee table, like children waiting after school for their mother who always took to long to pick them up.
Seth Greene and the boy from Home Alone lit the screen, dressed in ridiculous outfits and wearing obscene make up. Also set in New York, Party Monsters was about a group of kids who were famous for no reason, just for throwing great parties and being fabulous. It seemed like a ridiculous movie to some people, but the dark pieces that showed the plunge into drug addiction and being caught into the current of parties was intoxicating. Watching the self destruction of someone who would have been her age the time the movie was made. “We are who we make ourselves to be.” Her grandpa would say when talking about his son, never making excuses for his absence.
The Bronx had been kind to Amelia all these years, compared to others. She knew what blocks to cross and what blocks to avoid. Most loud pop noises were from a car backfiring, and in general the violence seemed to avoid her area. When she moved into Empire Heights several months ago she had just finished a lease with a roomate in a cramped space in Manhattan, a horrible decision. She could barely afford to save money and hated the atmosphere of the area, preferring the laid back edge of the Bronx.
Glancing at her watch, the slight femme sighed, figuring it was time to allow herself into the world again. Stripping as she made her way to the shower, she ran the hot water before stepping in. The bathroom started to smell like fresh citrus’ and shea butter, going through her beauty regimen meticulously. Emerging fresh and rejuvinated, Amil piled her hair into a turban on top of her head before going into her bedroom. “Fuuuck.” She cursed to herself as she open the doors to her closet and a couple of drawers, shuffling through to see what might catch her eye. When nothing did she took a seat on the edge of her bed, facing the closet. Often when she felt stuck about what to wear that was what she did, just stare blankly into the abyss of her clothing. Deciding she just wanted to run to the cafe, she threw on an oversized retro black sweater and leggings that neatly tucked into a pair of boots.
Normally she would have done her make up, but she just powdered her nose and brushed on a little mascara, grabbing her book on her way out. Since she lived on the first floor, the cafe would be only one flight up. She took slow measured breaths, asthma always reminding her that her breath capacity was laughable. When she made it to the cafe, the barista already rang up her order, calling out, “One big eggnog latte, coming up!” with a smile. Amil had a soft spot for eggnog anything. She smiled and paid, taking a seat in a comfy, plush couch, using the arm as support as she buried her nose in the book until she would receive her latte.

In the corner of the lounge another occupant of Empire Heights sat, Patrick Murphy clicking away into his lap top, then angrily deleting whatever he had written and starting over, a writers cycle. His hair strewn in all directions from him tugging at his shaggy dark locks while he worked. Dark bags under his eyes showed he was under stress, his vivid gray blue eyes mimicking the look of a corpse. He had been pressed for a dead line, and article about an undergoing political scandal that had yet to hit the light, he was the exclusive, or he would be if he could get the damn article right in time for the deadline. He wore the same thing he would to sleep, navy fleece sweat pants and a dark gray thermal shirt, hugging at his wrists snuggly. Even his feet wore the same red and black checkered house shoes he sported around his unit. Going to take a drink from his mug, he realized it was empty, finally making himself aware of his surroundings. He noticed he wasn’t alone anymore, and specifically that Amil had taken refuge on the couch with a book which read Haunted across the top.

Clutching his mug with dear life he first went to the counter, smirking as he offered the mug, as if wordlessly to say “Do your job, bitch.”
The woman smiled back and filled his mug, not even bothering to ask if he wanted sugar or cream, he liked his coffee like his views on life, bitter. The woman knew by now Patrick wasn’t much of a people person, so she was surprised when he stopped to sit in the chaise lounge chair across from Amil, grinning with amusement. “Why, Amelia Sheffield you are ever full of surprises. Who on earth knew that you knew how to read?” He said, a glint in his eye as he went to sip from his mug.

Yet to have received her latte, before even acknowledging Patrick’s presence, she lazily looked over her book to the woman, who’s mouth seemed to have fallen open, appalled by Patrick’s comment. Raising her eyebrows in question, the woman then seemed to have realized what Amil was only concerned about, and returned to making Amil’s drink. Smiling to herself, she dog eared a page in her book before looking at Patrick’s expectant expression. He was such a man, desperate to always be so crude and have to feel the need to be an alpha, the only reason she knew him really was through Kaleb. Although she had to say that he grew on her a little.

Clearing her throat, she sat up straight, setting down her book as the woman finally brought her latte. Gently thanking the lady, Amil turned to face Patrick as she went to take a sip of her drink, both of them staring each other down. Finally, Amil looked away to set her drink down gently, ladylike. Then brushing off herself, she then looked back at Patrick, “Dusting the hate off.” She said casually.

He rolled his eyes, flicking her off as he leaned back.
“Hehe, well fuck you too, Trick!” She said, adding hand gestures for emphasis, simulating an explosion of fireworks ..or whatever else.
Once again he rolled his eyes, smacking the air as if it was her, blowing a heave of disapproval over his shoulder. “That’s right motherfucker, know you’re place.” She added.

Patrick couldn’t help prodding Amelia, she was comical. She had a small, sweet voice, but spoke so many profanities he couldn’t keep up. Her persona was a blend of hip-hop, rocker and bubbly, an odd mixture - but she was a weird girl. Kaleb and her had hooked up once or twice, he wasn’t sure. He remembered Kaleb claiming he and his girl were on a break, but the timing didn’t make sense to Patrick. Unfortunately Patrick knew Kaleb wasn’t the most loyal boyfriend. Either way when he first met Amil, he thought for sure she would make him want to boil and serve his own brains for dinner. After about an hour of hearing so many swear words twisted into so many phrases, he felt a little better about being forced to hang out with her when Kaleb would try to get him out of his apartment. He quickly realized her best form of communication was arguing, and it became a constant thing between them, although a fraction of the animosity began as real, they really are good friends now.

“What are you doing out of your shell, Herbie?” Amil asked, calling him Herbie after a pet hermit crab she once had. She claims he died from neglect.

“Trying to get this article done, it’s due at midnight and I haven’t got anything but the title, which I’ve changed 7 times.”

She nodded, taking a sip from her latte again. “Sounds like you’re trying to procrastinate.” She winked playfully.

Wilting, Patrick rolled his head back, tugging at his hair once again. “Okay, just go Dr. Phil on me Amil.” He stood up, cradling his mug. “I’m going to retreat to my corner. You can stay here and sell tickets to the freak show, you’d be the perfect representative.”

This time it was Amil to flick him off, raising her book back up and curling up once again on the sofa. Chuckling to himself, Patrick took his place back behind his laptop and decided that before he wrote another line, it was time for a title change.


“For me, the Doors is always the best way to go. From what you’re telling me about that person, I feel like they have the same music taste as me and I would go crazy if someone bought me one of their vinyl records.” A brown skinned boy said, escorting a straight edge suburban middle aged white couple around the overstocked, crazy chaos of the record store. They were dressed to go to dinner at the club, he was dressed to go to a concert. However for once, Kaleb didn’t look like the one out of place, this was his ground, this time it was the well off, put together one that looked misplaced. They wearily looked at each other, looking Kaleb from his aged black vans, straight leg dark wash jeans and old Ramones black and white tee under his red and black flannel worn over as a jacket. As far as professionalism goes, Kaleb had none, but he seemed to know his shit about music. The couple bought the record, and a couple other ones he suggested. As he rang them up they said that he reminded them a lot of their son, and he laughed and thought to himself how pissed they must be about that. Instead he smiled and gave them their receipt, invited them back. She said they would be back, but he doubted it.

Most of their income was from regulars anyways. Taking his seat behind the counter, Kaleb checked his phone. Only a couple hours until he could go home, or go get laid, or go see a movie. He felt like being anywhere but in the too-small shop that seemed to drain most of his days away. Kicking his feet up, he reached over for his bass guitar and began strumming it, practicing for his gig coming up. That was what Kaleb loved about this job, at least here he was encouraged to make music his life.