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An image I’ve never seen in person, but my mind has mixed, envisioned, and dreamed up.
I was drawing Lola without even realizing it, and something about that, the fact that this woman who infuriates me infiltrated my creative space like that, made me angry at her.
I was an ass because apparently, that’s all I can do with this woman. Rattle her cage. Push her until that sunshine exterior cracks and her true self shows—the take no shit, speak her mind side.
Because that’s the part of her I just might like. The one she hides. I can’t quite pin down why the spoiled, silver-spooned daughter of a mayor has so much venom inside of her, or why she coats it in sugar and spice and everything nice, but I like when it comes out, what it reveals.
Now, that temptation has me paying the price.
I throw a pillow over my head in an attempt to drown out the noise, and while I do, I try to think about why the fuck the old neighbors never bothered me. They weren’t quiet by a long shot, and when their business was open, they kept similar hours to Lola.
Never did I care.
It rarely woke me up, and when it did, I either went out to run off my exhaustion or rolled over and went back to sleep.
And the few times they did ask me to turn down my music, I always did, apologizing and being more mindful.
But you didn’t turn your music loud because you forgot she lived there,my mind reminds me.You turned it up because you knew if you did, she’d come barging over.
No. That’s not true. Not at all.
Why the fuck would I want Lola to come over here, to bug the shit out of me?
No.
The sound creeps through the fluff of my pillow, and I release a tired groan.
Despite living on the boardwalk, I don’t enjoy staying up super late. I’m usually knocked out not long after the shop closes, especially on weekends when the shop closes later. But last night, I closed and went up to my quiet apartment and just . . . couldn’t. Knowing I needed to work on my auction piece, I sat at my desk and got lost.
But not before I put on my music.
Fuck. Am I an asshole?
I hear a clang, what sounds like a baking sheet falling from 8 feet off the ground, and decide no. I’m not an asshole.
The music last night was warranted, especially if she’s going to do this shit.
My legs swing out of my bed, forcing me to stand on the wood laminate floors that I hate almost as much as I hate waking up before ten.Almost.
My ancestors would cringe at the idea of my living in a shitty apartment without the luxury of hand-sanded wood floors and carved railing posts and huge open windows that allow for the perfect amount of natural light.
Sorry, Great-grandpa. That life wasn’t meant for me.
My eyes lock on the shorts sitting in the corner where I kicked them before falling into bed last night. My feet slip into the old Vans with the heels caved in from using them as slip-ons. My hand reaches for the front door, slamming it behind me as I walk out and jog down the stairs joining our apartments and businesses.
Then I knock.
Nothing. Possibly an increase in clanging.
“Lola! Open the door!” I shout over the noise.
I know she hears me. While I replaced the doors to the shop and my apartment not long after moving with a more durable, safer, and sound-resistant style, the previous tenants did not. There are old, cheap doors on both the bakery and Lola’s apartment.
A part of me thought about that when I realized a pretty woman had moved in. How I should offer—insist, even—to help her out, give her a safer place.
But when I knock and she ignores me again, I decide I’m glad I didn’t.
Because this time, she actually locked the door.
