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myelocin · 4 years

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blue curtains and red roses | sakusa kiyoomi

synopsis: it’s supposed to be simple. the author made the curtains blue because he liked the color blue, so sakusa’s more confused than anything when you come into his life and challenge that thought.

characters: sakusa kiyoomi, you

genre/warnings: tw: character death, hurt/slight comfort, angst lol, head empty just a bunch of talking n metaphors i think

wc: 1.7k+

a/n: xave this is all ur fault; i’m supposed to be in my pajamas now watching henry cavil interviews yet here we are with an angst,,,i kid, ily too much ;w;

“Why does the author color the curtains blue?”

The answer can be as simple as it could be complex. But really, it’s all subjective.

In one perspective, blue could depict the author’s use of imagery to further emphasize and convey the atmosphere of sadness—if the story was, well, sad. A somber shade of blue—like the color the world associated with sadness, or even a deep midnight blue, like the void the author must have felt when he spiraled down after the story’s climax.

Then again, in another point of view—blue could mean that it was simply just the color of the curtain. Blue could have meant the subtle blend from the window to the skies outside and maybe even flesh out a metaphor from that. Something along the lines of how easily the things crafted by man could still find a way to blend back into the roots of nature.

Bits of poetry always settled between the lines, Sakusa likes to think.

Rather, he prefers to settle on the thought that the author colored the curtains blue because he just liked the color blue. Nothing more, nothing less.

He just liked blue, that’s all; there wasn’t a metaphor hidden in that, either.

You came into his life, constantly revising the answer to that same question and unnervingly boggling his mind every time.

“You’re exaggerating,” he recalls telling you, but would sigh then relent when you pinched him on the arm to get him to focus again.

“It’s just a curtain,” he explains, before you sighed and would restart your explanation from the beginning. Sakusa would never admit it—but he liked to listen to you talk, that’s why his interruptions and counter arguments were a frequent presence in between your explanations.

“It is,” you huffed (a memory Sakusa always smiles at), as you crossed your hands over your chest. “—but it tells as much as we allow it to.”

“When we read, we always have the ability and choice to set the scene the way we want to look at it. I mean, the story’s there and the dialogue sets the pace, but I could always decide whether I wanted to be the protagonist or antagonist in the story that day,” you said.

“Whatever day it is, the lines I love you stays constant on the page, but some days it could mean a happily ever after, while others, it could mean a love lost to a rival. When I’ll read that the curtain’s blue, I could think that it’s empathizing with my sadness one day and how it’s there to sway with the dip of my thoughts, or I could think that it’s blue to remind me how the blue skies outside speak of opportunities and tomorrows.”

“But what if the author just liked the color blue?” Sakusa challenges, and you’d perk up at his sudden interest in the conversation and would be quick to retort.

“Then blue becomes that constant in the background that reminds you that whether the world is ending or beginning—there will always be those things that remain despite the turmoil in your head. The blue curtain becomes that. Just a spectator in the rollercoaster. It’s hard to find simplicity because everything just feels that connected, Omi.”

You finish your spill, smiling. Radiant, he thinks; intoxication from passion had always been the look that suit you the most.

“You’re not changing your mind are you?” Sakusa laughs out, and you shake your head no, laughing along with him.

It’s fine, Sakusa thinks, he prefers you that way.

He remembers you that way; inquisitive and abstract in a world that was anything but.

He remembers you in the metaphors you’ve entangled your words in—that he listened to over and over again and would nod his head, expression pondering, like it was the first time he’d heard of such thoughts.

In the photographs he’s kept in even stacks inside a box he hasn’t touched in a little over a year now. Collecting dust, probably. Something Sakusa itches to dust off—but backs out the second he sees the familiar scrawl of your handwriting sitting on the flap that’s folded close.

He looks to the right, to the window of an emptied bedroom, the curtains a dull gray instead of blue—and he thinks it’s rather fitting. At the moment Sakusa supposes he does feel a little gray.

“There’s poetry in every moment,” he hears the voice in his head say—your voice.

So like the pull of the sun as the earth falls in orbit, Sakusa gravitates towards pandora’s box where he knows with one push of a flap it’d be enough to tangle him in thoughts of you.

He laughs, a little dryly; not a day goes by where he doesn’t connect metaphors to the world for the sake of adding a couple sentences to the memoir he writes for you.

He holds his breath as he opens the box and smiles as the first color he sees just so happens to be red. He drags the box to the other side of the room—the side facing right across the window and takes a seat as he dives.

The first thing he sees is a photo of you. The photo that followed him for a little over a year now. He remembered he took that photo maybe two or three years ago, in the garden by the park a few blocks away from home. Your dress was white—fitting, he thinks. A literal angel, really. He knows you’d snort at the joke, so he lets out a small chuckle instead; Sakusa knows you appreciate crumbs of happiness sprinkled over clouds of grief, so he hopes that wherever you are, you’re listening and happy.

It’s the photo he stared at when he read your eulogy in a room where the silence thundered over cries, and where the midnight blue curtains in the lobby empathized with the void he felt suffocated in.

Next he sees a sketchbook with red. The same kind of roses you painted over and over again, the stems and petals in vines and overlapping one another, looking like a crown. The stems were smooth, he noticed, void of thorns and cracked petals. He thinks it makes the pages look alive—you’ve always seen the world a little differently, a little more beautifully.

Sakusa smiles when he realizes that it was because of you that he gave the world another shot at beauty too.

“Why do you paint the roses red?” he wants to ask you, so he poses the question into a silent room again. A listening world, you’d chide, so he smiles.

“Because you liked red roses the best,” he says because that would be the most obvious answer. And in a way it’s true—he knows that red roses to you meant the memory of home and love.

But after a moment passes, Sakusa sighs because when he thinks of the roses you drew again—he sees the thorns sprout this time.

His chest tightens when petals of red—bloody red, line his vision and fill his lungs when the veins, thorns and all dig into the skin of his shoulders and render him trapped.

He inhales—and Sakusa feels like he can’t let it out.

“Why must the roses always be red?” he asks again, and this time, he answers that it is because red is the color of blood.

The color that stained the sheets of white when you left, a goodbye the last thing on your mind as the world decided to return you back to the earth.

Red, the color of your lipstick that you kissed and imprinted on his cheeks as a joke an hour before the world took you. The roses are red, because red is the color that symbolized his grief and anger when he stared at the mirror not wanting to wash his face and erase the last of your traces.

It’s red, Sakusa cries, because it’s the color of the blood that’s pumping in his veins.

Like the one that trickled from yours. Where just like that, it danced between the space of life and death.

Pumping.

Seeping.

Pooling.

Staining.

The color of the roses you painted were always in some shade of red, because red was the color you painted the beginning and end of your life with.

Sakusa stands in the middle of the room, the opened box collecting dust a mere foot away from him and he continues to stare at the blue sky past the gray of the curtains. It’s a cloudless day; so he smiles.

Because you love blue skies like that—Sakusa inhales—shaky—then exhales. Then he allows himself to cry: soft and silent, like it’s a secret he’s murmuring into the listening ears of a kind world.

“It sort of is,” he can practically hear you say, and Sakusa wishes you were actually present so that he could hear more explanations of the metaphors you must have unearthed by now.

“(Y/n),” he calls out, his voice broken. This must be heartbreak, he thinks. It’s slow and a little suffocating, but he can exhale now, so Sakusa supposes it’s a necessary step to take.

“The sky’s blue for you today,” he whispers again, like talking to you is still some sort of secret, though he knows he’ll only receive silence as a reply.

“A blue sky means there’s tomorrow right?”

The grey curtain rustles with the breeze and Sakusa closes his eyes, thinking of your words from before. How you can decide to set the scene in any way you’d like, so he sets it as this:

Even though the curtain’s colored grey, and the thorns on the roses you painted served as the constant in the story, he’d look at the blue sky instead—and think that it’s your way of telling him to seek for tomorrow.

Then for the first time, Sakusa Kiyoomi supposes you’re right.

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rachwritesow-blog · 6 years

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i hope your asks are still open dkdk but can i request an os w/ hanzo. its a bit specific but they met each other at a familly business thingy and the girl is wearing deep red lipstick and they're kinda forced to stay together so they began talking a bit and it got flirty and hanzo just goes like "does your lipstick let marks ?" and she's like "why don't you try ?" its messy sorry dldk but i got the idea and idk, ily

Here you are!

Word Count: 1490 words.

~Fic is under the cut~

Being involved in your parents business was never your favorite thing in the world, but sometimes it had its perks. Tonight, for example, your parents had been invited to a lavish party by none other than the infamous Shimada Clan to do some business. Neither one of them would let on to what was going to be involved, but they invited you to go as well if you wished. You took them up on their offer since you had heard that this party was incredibly high class and you were basically just given a free ticket. You thought you might as well go now in case you never got the chance again.

Donning a white dress, heels and your favorite red lipstick, you entered the venue and looked around. The building was beautiful and decorated eloquently for the occasion. The slow music from the band in the main hall danced around the room, filling the ears of the partygoers. Some people sat at tables with their group or wandered around the area, mingling with others. You followed your parents to a table and sat down. Their meeting wasn’t until later, so you all had some time to get settled in.

“So,” you began. “What’s this big meeting all about anyways?”

“Business. Things that are not your concern, Y/N,” your father says.

“Right, right. So why did you let me come again?”

“I thought it was something that would interest you, dear. Just stay out of trouble,” your mom chuckles.

You roll your eyes and return your focus to the party. Your parents often tried to keep their work from you. You weren’t sure if it was to protect you or if they just didn’t want you involved. Most days you didn’t mind, but sometimes it frustrated you with how little they trusted you with. You were their only child, after all. Why couldn’t they be a little more trusting?

After dinner had finished, you excused yourself from the table to let your parents have their little discussion. It really was a wonderful occasion. The hosts were some rich people that you didn’t know, and they sold tickets to this event to the highest bidders. How your parents managed to get them free, you had no idea. Whatever this meeting was about, it must’ve been pretty important if it warranted giving us free entry. These tickets never came cheap. Everybody here was dressed eloquently and spoke in a sophisticated voice. Being the daughter of two of the biggest crime bosses in the world, you felt a little out of place. Not to mention, it seemed that you were the only person in your age group who was attending this party. Everybody else you had seen was at least fifteen to twenty years older than you.

You made your way onto the balcony area and gazed up at the sky, taking in the beauty of the evening. The stars hung high in the sky above you, illuminating the dark void of the rest of the universe. The air of the cool spring evening surrounded you as you stargazed, no longer paying attention the the event. The music and commotion coming from inside eventually faded into background noise.

“You must be Y/N,” you hear, suddenly ripped from your daze.

You turn around and are met with a man, slightly taller than you, but looking similar to you in age. He is dressed elegantly for the event.

“Yes that’s me, and who might you be?” you question.

“Hanzo Shimada, I believe your parents are meeting with my father to discuss some business. I saw you with them earlier.”

“Oh, yes. I was with them earlier, but my parents like to do their work by themselves, so I figured I’d give them some privacy. What about you? Shouldn’t you be with your father?”

“I have no place in this discussion tonight, so I will wait for him to be finished. I saw you when I walked by and decided to introduce myself. I feel our families will be seeing each other more frequently after tonight.”

“Yes, it does seem that way. Whatever they are doing seemed very important.”

Your conversation is interrupted by a waiter approaching the two of you. He holds a platter with numerous filled glasses.

“Can I interest either of you in a drink?” he asks.

“Of course,” Hanzo replies. “This is a celebration, after all.”

He takes two glasses, one of which he offers to you. You take it out of his hand with a smile. The waiter moves on to other partygoers.

“A toast,” Hanzo says. “To a future of successful business between our families.”

“Agreed.”

You raise your glasses to each other before taking a sip of the beverage. You suddenly felt very official, being dressed up all nice at this fancy party and toasting to the future of your respective businesses. It made you hold your head a little higher and feel more daring than you usually would.

After talking for a while with Hanzo, the two of you decided to spend the remainder of the evening together as it was assured that both of your parents would be busy. You had both finished your drinks and wandered inside, continuing your conversation. Your ears picked up the sound of the band playing again, and your attention turned to the ballroom floor for a moment.

“Beautiful music, is it not?” Hanzo asks. “These musicians are very talented indeed.”

“I agree, and look at everyone dancing. It seems everyone is having a good time.”

“Yes, they do seem to be enjoying themselves.”

There are a few moments of silence as you and Hanzo take in the other guests dancing and enjoying the slow melody of the music. You found yourself swaying back and forth gently as you listened.

“Y/N, would you do me the pleasure of joining me for a dance?” he asks.

You turn to him, slightly taken aback.

“Me? Are you sure?”

“Of course. It would be a shame to come to such an occasion and not have even one dance, and, after all, I do have the perfect partner,” he says, smiling.

That comment makes warmth crawl onto your face. You stutter a bit, trying to figure out what to say. He just smirks and offers you his arm. You take it and he leads you out onto the dance floor. The two of you find a nice spot and turn to face each other. He takes your left hand in his right, and snakes his other around your lower back. You place your hand on his shoulder as the two of you start to sway gently back and forth to the music. He looks down at you and smiles.

“I must say, you are dresses very beautifully tonight,” Hanzo says, suddenly.

“Oh, well thank you. I really love this dress and I finally had an excuse to wear it again,” you reply, blushing.

“It pairs well with the lipstick you chose. I think they are an excellent pair.”

You give a slight chuckle and glance up into his eyes. He looked handsome as well, but you couldn’t really find the words for it at the moment. You were too starstruck to even think, let alone speak.

“I must ask,” he chuckles. “Does it stay on or does it leave marks? As far as I know, most girls who wear bold colors say it comes off.”

“Hmm, why don’t you find out?”

He looked down at you and raised an eyebrow. You felt daring when you thought of that, but hearing it come out of your mouth just drowned you in embarrassment. The flirty feelings you were experiencing only moments before suddenly turned to shame. You felt your face go from bright red to pale white in a matter of seconds.

“Uh, I mean…”

You scrambled to find a reasonable explanation for what you had just said, but nothing came to mind. You looked up to meet his gaze again when his lips suddenly met yours. It took you a second to realize what was happening, but when you did, you closed your eyes and relaxed into his arms. He let his your hand go and used his now free hand to pull you closer. You took your hands and put them gently on either side of his face. The two of you remained there for a few seconds, letting the gentle music float around you. He pulled away gently, and only then did you see how red his face was. Yours was probably the same way, but if it was, he didn’t comment on it.

“What was that for?” you ask, breathless.

“I wanted to find out,” he replies, smirking.

You giggle and press your head into his shoulder, embracing him. He pulls you closer into his arms as the two of you continue sharing a gentle dance on this now wonderful night.

#hanzo shimada #hanzo x reader #Overwatch #overwatch imagines

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moonlitjiminn · 6 years

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Silver and Gold Beads | Taehyung, You

Scenario is dedicated to my beautiful friend @kurrrzurrr (I LOVE YOU MIA AND I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS)

Distance means so little when someone means so much

You were trying hard not to let your nerves get the best of you, but as you listened to Wild by Tiffany Gouche for the fifth time that evening, with the rest of your dance crew it was becoming all too real. Tomorrow was the day. The day you finally got to dance in your dream arena, to the choreography you had all been practicing for over a year with the twenty strangers who had become your closest friends in the span of that year.

“Mia?” a quiet voice interrupted your thoughts and you turned to the source.

“Yeah?” you shook your head, “Sorry, I’m just too excited.”

Your friend cheesed a smile, “Me too! I can’t believe the day’s here already!” she leaned in closer, “Is the boyfriend coming?”

Your smile fell. Taehyung was currently in America for their tour and so couldn’t make it. But it was okay, you understood.

It would be a lie, however, if you said you weren’t upset about it.

“I told you,” you smiled, showing your friend that it didn’t really phase you, “He has his tour.”

“Okay listen up!” your team leader announced from the other side of the circle, “I have something to say.”

When everyone was done talking, he stood up.

“I just wanted to let you guys know that I’m so proud of each and every single one of you…” and with that beautiful pre-concert speech, the void that Taehyung’s absence had was suddenly filled. “We have all worked so hard to get to where we are, enduring countless injuries, spending numerous hours a day practicing and crying oceans of tears to this day. You owe it to yourselves to go out there tomorrow and do your best. The hardest part is already over, let’s just go out and have fun!”

“Mia, I miss you so much,” your needy boyfriend whined on the phone once the dinner with your crew was over and you were back home getting ready to sleep.

You grinned, washing your face, “I miss you too honey,” laughing at his clinginess, “How was your day?”

“Well, Namjoon hyung forgot one of his lines in Airplane, Seokjin accidentally danced to verse 2 during verse 1 in Anpanman, Jungkook forgot he was meant to be harmonising with me but there weren’t any other mistakes really.”

“Thanks for the update, Tae.”

“You’re very welcome,” you heard him shuffling around before he settled finally, “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

“Yes! Tae you have no idea how excited I am,” you rolled over to your other side on bed.

“You have no idea how much I want to be there to see you kill the stage, Mia.”

You grinned, “No, Tae, I do know, and it’s okay, I told you, it’s really okay.”

“Tae! Can you hurry up and shower so I can use the bathroom! We gotta leave for the interview in half an hour!” you heard Jimin’s muffled voice through the receiver.

“Okay, you get back to your thing honey, I’ll talk to you tomorrow!”

He groaned, “I want to keep talking to you,” you could hear the pout in his tone.

“I know, Tae, but we both have huge days coming up, let’s rest and talk later okay?” You always found yourself having to become the rational one when it was between you two, someone had to be right? But you loved it, knowing that he wanted to spend as much time with you as you did.

“Okay, fine, good luck for your concert tomorrow Mia, although you won’t need it,” that made you giggle, “Love you!”

“Love you too Tae, make sure you get heaps of rest after all your interviews, okay!”

“Yes Ma’am,” his voice was stern and that was you cue to hang up.

You turned to the ceiling. Tomorrow. It’s finally coming.

“Pass me the bobby pins!” someone yelled over the background music.

“Did you find Tracey’s shoes? She said she left it in the dressing room,” another voice.

“Get me the new sets of liquid lipsticks, will you?” You smiled down at your phone; you loved the atmosphere in here, although it was busy, everyone was happy, and everyone was laughing. And besides, you were also excited to see a new message from your boyfriend.

Taehyung: Hey Mia, how’s prep for tonight going?

“Mia your hair is not listening to me today,” your stylist told you, picking at it.

You laughed, “When does it ever listen to you? You always seem to get it to work though.”

Mia: Good! I’m getting my hair done right now :)

His reply was almost instant.

Taehyung: Please send pictures when you’re done! I want to see your outfit!

Mia: Of course Tae

“Can you just hold this up for me hun?” you looked up at the mirror to see your stylist holding a piece of your hair out for you.

Putting your phone down, you held it like she told you.

Before you knew it, your look was stage ready, and you were getting organised to get on stage. When you went back to get your phone from where you had left it on the dressing table, you couldn’t find it there.

“Hey, do you know where my phone is? I left it here but it’s not there anymore,” you asked one of your friends in your dance group and they nodded their head to a box in your leader’s hands.

“Hyung collected them all, it should be in there.”

“Thanks!”

Skipping over to your leader, you wanted to ask for your phone to quickly snap a photo of you in your costume to send to Taehyung before you got all sweaty and disgusting.

But that was when you were called for stage.

“Mia! Where the heck ar-” you looked up to see someone running through the hallways looking for you, “There you are, c’mon let’s go, your set is up in a minute.”

You sighed, guess Taehyung will have to suffice with the group photos you took before.

Almost immediately, you were thrown onto stage, your song playing in the background and your members getting into position. Before you followed, however, you couldn’t help yourself when you quickly took a peek at the audience. The whole arena was full, glow sticks and wrist bands illuminating the crowd.

You would be lying if you said you didn’t get teary eyed at the sight.

Almost two years in the making, all your hard work was about to be on display for thousands of people.

You didn’t get to indulge in your thoughts for too long, however, as it was finally time to start dancing.

It was now time for your fourth (and final) dance set and this was the one where you were to dance on the extra stage which went into the audience.

However, when you were walking to the centre stage, something you saw caught your eye.

“You know pink doesn’t look good on me!” Taehyung whined, taking the cap off his head.

You pouted, trying really hard to make him feel guilty.

“Baby, I spent two days making this!”

Taehyung bit his lip, looking at the cap, ‘Mia’s number one fan!’ bejewelled with silver and gold beads on the top, two strips of black and white cloth clipped to the back of it. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s gorgeous.”

You could hear the lie right through his teeth.

“I just don’t think pink suits me,” he pinched your cheek, “Also, I wouldn’t be able to wear this anywhere, it would attract too much attention.”

Your eyes were bored as you replied, “Kim Taehyung you better take this cap and wear it right now-”

He sighed, caving and taking the cap. Putting it on his head, he looked to you, “Happy?”

You grinned, taking his face in your hands, “You’re my number one fan.”

“You know, it would be perfect to wear this to one of your concerts,” he looked down, “If I could ever go to one.”

You bent down, trying to put yourself in his field of vision, lifting his head up, “Doesn’t matter where you are, whenever I perform, you’re right there with me, every second of it. So don’t feel bad okay? I love you and I know you want to be there, besides, there’s always video.”

“It’s so much better seeing you live though,” he sighed. “I’m such a bad boyfriend I’ve never seen you perform at all.”

“Oh shush, it’s not like I’ve been to a Bangtan concert either.”

He looked up to you, “Wait, what?”

“Oh no,” your eyes widened, and you hopped off his lap, “I think someone just called me.”

Squinting your eyes to the cap in front of you, you realised you weren’t hallucinating and it really did say ‘Mia’s number one fan’ in silver and gold beads.

The head lifted, and your guess was right.

There he was.

Kim Taehyung, beaming right up at you.

You almost tripped, tears threatening to fall from your eyes.

Quickly looking away, you tried to keep your composure, willing for the next seven minutes of your routine to zip past quick so you could run back stage and to your boyfriend.

Luckily you were able to focus on your dance for the remainder of it, catching glimpse of Taehyung here and there, the proud smile on his face as he watched you never leaving.

When the dance was over, your whole group did their bows and final waves to the audience before you finally sprinted back, changing your shoes, throwing another member’s hoodie over your shirt and getting out of there.

As soon as you opened the door, however, you crashed into someone.

“I’m so so-” when you looked up, you cut yourself off, seeing Hoseok – one of Taehyung’s band mates – standing there with a huge bouquet of flowers.

“Hey!”

He grinned, “Mia! Just the girl we wanted to see.”

“We?”

That was when a head popped around Hoseok’s own, and another, and another, before all seven heads were in your view.

“What are you all doing here?” you laughed, finding the tears start to well in your eyes again.

“We came to watch you dancing, isn’t that obvious?” Jungkook, the youngest, said, a-matter-of-factly.

You reached forward, hugging every member one by one, until they all just gave you a group hug instead.

“Okay now that that’s over,” Yoongi interrupted the hug, “We’re gonna leave Taehyung with you while we go and check out the displays.”

“What displays? No I wanted to talk to Mia-” Jungkook was dragged away by another member, finally leaving you and Taehyung to yourselves.

“I can’t believe you actually came,” you beamed, and cue the waterworks.

“I couldn’t miss it. God, you were amazing.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, even Hoseok and Jimin were in awe, they kept having a go at me for not letting them dance with you before.”

You laughed, “Yeah right, like they want to dance with me.”

“Don’t say that.”

“What?”

“Don’t put yourself down like that,” he held your hand, “You’re an amazing dancer, Mia, you actually crushed it out there tonight, I can’t believe I’d been missing all your performances, I missed out on a lot.”

Your laughter (and tears) wouldn’t stop.

“You’re a better dancer though.”

“How would you know,” he crossed his arms over his chest, “You’ve never been to one of my concerts.”

Laughing, you unwound his arms and wrapped them around you, “But was I really that good?”

He looked down, pointing at his hat, “I really am your number one fan.”

You chuckled, “You still have that thing.”

“Well yeah, I knew you were gonna give me an earful if I threw it away.”

“Why would you throw it away?!” you stiffened up, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Yeah, exactly, that’s what I meant,” he rolled his eyes, “Come here.”

Smiling, you leant into his embrace, “This is the perfect way to reunite after all this time,” sniffing, you held him tighter, “Man I missed you.”

“I think I missed you more, seeing as I actually got on a plane to come and see you.”

“Are you being salty right now?” you gasped, bending back from him.

“Shh, shh,” he hushed you, pulling you back into his arms, “Don’t ruin the moment.”

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famedexclusivearchive · 6 years

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[BREAKING] BC Entertainment announces departure of Lipstick’s main vocal Jung Goeun

At 8AM KST on December 1st, BC Entertainment released a statement reading:

“BC Entertainment and its associates are sad to announce the departure of Jung Goeun from Lipstick due to declining vocal health. We care deeply about the well-being of our artists and upon doctor recommendation, BC Entertainment and Goeun have jointly decided that she will no longer promote as a member of Lipstick. The group will continue to promote with six members.”

Several hours after BC Entertainment released their statement, at 2:45PM KST, Jung Goeun uploaded a statement to her Instagram that read:

“Hello, this is Jung Goeun. My departure from Lipstick was announced this morning earlier than I had anticipated, and I had not had time to write a statement yet, but I wanted to share my true feelings. I apologize to any fans who were worried as they waited to hear from me. I joined BC Entertainment as a trainee in 2007 before debuting in 2012, and after ten years with the company, I’ve decided that I wish to prematurely terminate my contract. BC Entertainment’s statement that I have privately dealt with health issues with my vocal cords for a few years now is true, but furthermore, I personally feel that remaining under BC Entertainment in any other capacity, as an actress or model, would have further jeopardized both my mental and physical health, which have been pushed to their limits since even before my debut. There is not much else I can say at this time, but I would like to thank the fans who have supported me and continue to support me. It breaks my heart to no longer be in a group with such amazing fans, but I do not take this decision lightly.

I’m also happy to announce my marriage, which was finalized two months ago without a ceremony.”

Inside sources say that both BC Entertainment and Jung Goeun’s statements only brush the surface of the issue and that Goeun plan to file a formal lawsuit against the company to void both her contract and the rumored 10 billion won early termination fine.

COMMENTS

[+1,235, -470] why would they announce this now? hasn’t bc gotten enough bad press lately?

[+1,107, -421] my bets are on bc kicking her out because she got married. no way they approved that.

[+900, -508] it sounds like it wasn’t as clean of a break as bc said. can’t wait for this drama.

[+682, -488] they left her out of the group’s sub-unit even though she was the best singer. i don’t blame her for leaving.

[+472, -213] if you can’t handle being paid just to wear designer clothes and look pretty, you shouldn’t be an idol anyway

[+365, -304] so she’s not going to say who she married? i know it’s going to be an average-looking rich man fifteen years older than her, but i’d like to see her take an idol away from their precious fan girls.

[+120, - 190] she always seemed stuck up. lipstick will be better off without her.

[+23, -158] guess this means no lipstick comeback for a while

Admin Note:

Since this is a bit of a plot drop that would reach the idol gossip mill and may not be the last you hear regarding this situation, I’ve decided to establish Jung Goeun as an NPC with an established background in the style that the company CEOs have. You can find this information below.

Name: Jung Goeun FC: Lee Yeonhee (if anyone ever wants to use her as a face claim, this would change) Born: January 1, 1991 in Seoul, South Korea Occupation: Former main vocal of Lipstick, actress, and model

Jung Goeun was one of the most popular and recognized members of Lipstick, as well as the oldest. Considered one of the best vocalists in the business and a great actress, nearly everyone in the country has at least heard her name. With that kind of fame comes positive and negative opinions alike, but she has generally been viewed favorably by the public over the course of her career. Her personal life has been kept largely private despite her frequent public appearances, but this only resulted in praise due to her low number of scandals. There have been a few attitude scandals to her name over the years, but they were all quickly dispelled by fellow idols coming to her defense with confirmation of her kindness and respect. Some netizens accused BC Entertainment of paying off idols to say this, but they were treated only as empty accusations.

She had solo acting and CF gigs during her career and a few well-received OST, but despite demand for more solo musical endeavors she always stated she wouldn’t pursue a solo career until she knew it wouldn’t interfere with the level of dedication she could commit to Lipstick. This earned her much admiration from fans.

Among co-workers, she was somewhat different from her public image. She was known for being quiet and her tendency to keep her personal life to herself extended to even her closest friends. She had many business acquaintances in the industry, especially those in influential places, but there were very few celebrities who could say they honestly knew her well, even within her own group, which she claimed to be so close to in public. She was admired by many juniors and this distant persona only earned her more reverence from younger idols. Many in the industry called her “Mystery Goeun” because they knew little about her other than her work.

#excbc #exclipstick #excgoeun #queued post

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thefastlanefanfic · 7 years

Text

The Neighbors - TWO

Wattpad // Chapters 1-2

Sidenote: I’m so sorry if you’re on mobile lol this is gonna be long as shit (why does the “read more” thing not work on mobile)

5:00 AM on Monday morning came entirely too soon. With the ability to select college courses all in the afternoon for my last semester, I'd been sleeping in until 11 o'clock in the morning. It certainly didn't help that I'd been sleeping past noon the last few days I was at home on my "summer break." There was something about finishing college that made me exhausted. I would have thought I'd be energetic and stoked to greet the days void of research papers and group presentations, but instead, it was like every single all-nighter I ever pulled was catching up to me.

I threw on the new lavender scrubs my father bought for me and proceeded with my morning routine. I made sure I had a lunch packed. Since I was trying to be healthy, I packed a salad with some chicken I'd prepared the night before and some popcorn. I loved popcorn. I printed and filled out all of the grown-up paperwork I had to turn in to the company to make sure I got medical insurance coverage and direct deposit to my bank account every two weeks. I felt like such an adult, having to do all of the background checks, I-9s, W-4s, and whatever other legal paperwork the company had to do before I could officially start work. Then again, I had to call my dad about forty times in the process of filling out the forms because I had no idea what they were asking me. Maybe I wasn't actually an adult just yet.

As I was walking to the front door, I noticed a group of crickets scatter away from the door inside the apartment. I squealed and jumped backwards before I knew what they were. Why were there so many of them in my apartment? I noticed the early morning sun streaming in through a sliver of a crack under the door. I swore to myself. The reason the crickets sounded so close to me last night was because they had come under the door into the apartment. I figured they were just sitting outside my bedroom window as I was trying to sleep.

I used my dustpan to chase a few of the crickets back toward the front door. Some of them had disappeared under my couch. Others were chirping from hidden crevasses in the apartment I had yet to discover. I growled as I heard one chirp that sounded like it was in my ear, but I couldn't find it anywhere around me. I checked my watch. I was going to be late for work. I opened the front door to shoo out the few crickets I could direct out of the apartment. On my front stoop was a small bag. The smell of warm shit filled my nostrils and began to crawl into my apartment, mixed from the humidity already clouding up the atmosphere outside.

"What the-"

I didn't have time or patience to decipher whether the dog crap was an insult directed toward me or just a rude, lazy neighbor who couldn't make it to his own trashcan. I glanced out into the quad to see if anyone was out with their dog. The quad was quiet. Still asleep. I slung my purse over my shoulder and switched my lunchbox to my left hand. In my right hand, I pinched the very tip of the bag between my pointer finger and my thumb and quickly made my way to the trashcan along the sidewalk. I threw the bag into the can and shivered, the smell of warm shit still lingering in the dense air.

"Early shift this morning?"

I nearly leapt out of my skin as someone approached from behind me. I whipped around, my purse swinging with my body and slapping against my butt as I did. It was Wilson. He was in uniform and looked like he was returning from a night shift.

"Or are you just returning home?" He asked.

It was too early for me to be dealing with him.

"Heading out," I said. "First day."

"Yippie-ki-yay! Good luck, even though I'm sure you'll be outstand-erific," he said, winking at me. "Maybe later tonight we can do that dinner date. Early birthday dinner? I know your birthday isn't until tomorrow but I just found out I've got a 16-hour shift tomorrow and I'm not sure I'll be able to take you out on that day. I'm covering for a buddy."

"You know, Wilson, I really just need to stay home and do some more getting settle-" I started, trying to weasel my way out of this "date."

"Oh come on, Leah. One dinner date. Maybe more after that, but only if you fall in love with me first." He snatched my free hand that previously held the poop-bag and kissed it.

I pulled my hand away and fake smiled. "One meal," I agreed, eager to get going. I refused to call it a "date."

"Magnificent," Wilson said, raising his arms to the heavens as if God himself had granted Wilson the permission to take me out. "I will pick you up around 7. Does that work?"

Just then, Harry sauntered into the quad wearing nothing but shorts and tennis shoes. He had a t-shirt draped around his neck and was using it to wipe the sweat from his forehead. His hair was sticking straight up into the air. His chest glistened with more sweat. I caught myself before my jaw dropped too noticeably. Harry's eyes met mine and he winked at me, smiling.

"Leah? Dinner tonight at 7?" Wilson asked again.

"What?" I asked, snapping back to reality. Harry was walking past us. I wished Wilson would shut up and leave. "Yeah, that's great. See you later-" I said, turning and following Harry. I called his name before he entered his apartment. He turned and smiled at me again.

"Lee." He wiped his forehead with his t-shirt. The full-frontal view of his bare torso finally gave me a look at the ink that covered every inch of his skin. Each piece of art came to life as his lungs expanded with each deep breath he took.

"Leah," I corrected him, laughing as though it didn't really hurt me that he couldn't seem to remember my name. ""Like, Lee-uh. Lee-uh," I repeated. I sounded like an idiot. "How are you?"

"Great," Harry said. "Nothing like an early morning run."

I faked a laugh. "Yeah."

"Do you run?" Harry asked.

"Not if I can help it," I answered honestly, chuckling to myself. Harry raised his eyebrows and nodded, the look on his face indifferent to whether I really ran or not. There was a glimmer in his eye that made it look like he was almost laughing at me internally or just really enjoying the conversation. One of those, or he just was being overly polite and wanted to go shower off the sweat that was flowing gently over his toned torso. "I mean," I said. "I should probably start..."

"Not a bad habit to pick up," he said, wiping just below his messy hair with his t-shirt one more time. "I can see how it's not for everyone though. You headed to work?" He looked me up and down in my lavender scrubs and smiled as though I was a four-year-old child dressed up for the job I wanted in the future. To be fair, that's about how I felt. I couldn't believe I was about to have my own adult job.

I nodded slowly, enjoying the way the words rolled off his tongue and dripped off of his lips before I snapped out of my trance and shot a look at my watch. "Oh shit- I'm actually going to be late."

"Good luck-" Harry said, turning and using a key to open his front door as I sprinted across the quad, holding my purse tightly to my hip. I slid to a halt with a sudden courage to ask:

"Harry, are you doing anything later tonight?"

He had disappeared into his doorway but the door was not yet closed. He reemerged and shrugged. "I'm not," he called to me. "Sounded like you made plans with Wilson, though."

The hopeful smile that had spread across my face disappeared as quickly as it came. "Oh, yes. I forgot."

Harry smiled and shook his head. "Maybe another time, Lee. Get to work."

"Leah," I corrected him once more.

He merely laughed and closed his front door.

I was tense arriving to work because I was a few minutes late. I rushed into the main foyer of Sunshine Days Nursing Home and nearly slammed into the front desk.

"Leah Fitzpatrick here for work. It's my first day."

The middle-aged, overweight receptionist was wearing some Winnie-the-Pooh scrubs, though the way she had snacks and drinks and cheap romance novels scattered all over the desk made it seem that she didn't actually work with any of the patients personally. The only spills her scrubs were catching were from her 64oz mega-drink soft drink cup she'd picked up from a truck stop and the ketchup swirled onto a half-eaten pizza that was laying in the empty receptionist chair beside her. She peered over her glasses at me. I found it hard to meet her eyes since so much dead skin and eye goop had congealed in the corners of her glasses where the bargain-brand frames met the bridge of her pale nose. Her red, short, curly hair matched the cheap red lipstick that had found its way to her front teeth.

"You're late," she said.

"I just got a little held up at home. My new apartment... the bolt lock was giving me problems," I lied.

I could tell the receptionist wasn't buying it. She cocked her head at me and looked at me. I was almost waiting for her to say, "Mhmm. Really?" I was relieved when she didn't.

"There are people here who work a night shift and it's really fucking tiring. Have you ever worked a night shift?" She snapped.

I shook my head.

"It's really fucking tiring. People are going to be mad if you refuse to get here on time. They want to sleep. Don't you like your sleep?"

I nodded.

"Then get here on time. It's really fucking tiring to work a night shift."

"Okay..." I said. "I got it."

The receptionist sat back in her comfortable swivel-chair and placed a fat hand on her chest like she'd been personally attacked. "If you're going to have a problem with coming to work on time you may as well quit now. Do you need to turn around and walk out those doors or are we going to agree that you come in at five o'clock?"

"Six," I corrected her.

She gasped at me, again offended that I would even open my mouth.

"Six is what the email said. I can show you," I said, pulling out my phone.

Clearly not wanting to be proven wrong, the receptionist held up a hand to me and shook her head. "Just be on time next time, okay? We don't have patience for people who don't take this job seriously."

"Jesus, Martha, cool it," a cool voice said from a hallway behind me. A woman in her 30's approached me and the receptionist slyly. She looked too clean to have worked a night shift. I wondered if she was working the day shift with me. Still addressing the receptionist, she said, "You were late on your first day because you spilled a Chick-fil-a milkshake down your front and had to go back home and change."

Martha's face flushed red.

The new woman leaned on the counter and looked at me. "Leah?"

"Yes," I said, extending a hand, relieved that someone spared me from the unwarranted wrath of the receptionist.

She shook it. She was a plain looking woman with brown eyes and brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail. She was wearing no jewelry or makeup, but still had a subtle beauty about herself. "Nicolle. I'll be showing you around these next few weeks. Or until you pick it up on your own."

She put her hands into the front pockets on the shirt of her green scrubs and walked back down the hallway she'd originally emerged from. I followed, finding nothing but administrative offices and break rooms. "You can put your stuff here," Nicolle said, motioning toward a single wall of tan lockers once we'd reached the room the furthest down the hallway. There was a table in the middle of the room with a few coffee cups, food wrappers, and magazines spread across it. A cell phone was plugged into the wall, charging. An old, square computer monitor was in the corner of the room I figured no one ever visited - the top of the computer was coated in a thick layer of dust. As the outdated "Windows" icon bounced from side to side of the monitor screen, it seemed to shake dust particles onto the rickety-looking desk it was sitting on. "Don't let Martha scare you," Nicolle said as I shoved my purse and lunch into a locker that reeked of old perfume. "Martha was engaged and basically got dumped for a skinny girl. It sucks. I'd be pissed if that happened too. But Martha then proceeded to gain another 200lbs after her fiancé left her. Whole thing was a mess. She just hates anyone she thinks is prettier than her." Nicolle stretched her arms over her head and yawned.

I wanted to feel bad for Martha, but because of the first and only encounter we'd had so far, I couldn't make myself feel for her.

Nicolle crossed her arms over her small chest. "We don't do a whole lot of training here for newbies unless you feel like you need it. You're fresh out of school though, right? You should have a better grip on physical therapy and art therapy and meds than any of us."

I laughed. "It's been a month since I've had to crack a textbook so I wouldn't mind a refresher of the meds. The rest I think will come naturally."

"Don't worry about the medicine so much. We have a registered nurse who sorts out dosages and brings the meds to you for whichever client you're with at the time. You just hand it to the client and make sure they don't spit it out or choke."

"Sounds easy," I said.

Nicolle laughed. "Easy unless you're working with Mr. Lewis. He'll spit until he has no more saliva if it means he doesn't have to take his meds."

For the day, I basically shadowed Nicolle. She was 35. Married to a guy she'd dated since high school. She kept assuring me that she loved the guy but proceeded to talk about all of the problems they were having and how tired of him she was. She droned on about how she went out with some of her single friends a week ago and was hit on by a tall, handsome cowboy. "I should have gone home with him. Spiced up my life a little bit. There is never any excitement anymore," she said to me as we carried lunch trays down the hallways from room to room. Before I could give her my opinion, she spoke to the old man in the room we'd entered. "Mr. Davenport, salmon today."

The old man she addressed merely turned his back to us and continued to watch The Price Is Right on his television. He curled his lip like he was disgusted as Nicolle placed the tray of food on a table beside him.

She rolled her eyes at me and motioned toward the door. In the hallway, she said, "He's a chef. Has a daughter who's a chef too. He says her name is Kennedy, I think. She lives in NYC. Dating some famous boxer. Mr. Davenport talks about her all the time, but she never calls or visits. I can't tell if she's actually real or if he's just crazy. He claims he won't call her because he put her up for adoption when her mother died during child birth. I just think Kennedy's a figment of his imagination. Anyway, the food is never good enough for him but he'll eat it if you just leave it for him."

By the time I got to take a lunch break, I was exhausted. There was something about the slow day that made me more tired. I felt like I wasn't really doing a whole lot, but making small talk with some old people who were mentally aware enough to recognize I was a new staff member, and other old people who weren't mentally aware enough to recognize that I was NOT, in fact, their grandchild. One woman in particular kept calling me "Elizabeth," who Nicolle later informed me was the baby girl the old woman miscarried in the 1930's. Really, it all made me sad. It just made me think of my father.

During group art therapy time, I sat with a table of four elderly women and watched as they painted aimlessly on their own canvases. Really, three of them were painting. The fourth was tugging at the uncomfortable smock that we'd distributed to everyone to keep their clothes from getting paint on them.

"Shelley, I don't like this fabric," the old woman croaked, addressing my new coworker across the room.

Shelley sighed and crossed her legs as she helped one of the elderly at her own table. She scratched under the heap of blonde hair on the top of her head, which I guess was supposed to be a messy bun. "Lydia, we've told you, we are keeping your other clothes from getting dirty."

The old woman looked at me as if I was supposed to contradict Shelley and give her permission to take the smock off. I smiled at her as politely and sympathetically as I could, but didn't say anything. In the 8 hours I'd been there, I didn't feel I knew any of the clients well enough to ask anything of them or order them around.

"This damn place..." Lydia muttered under her breath, turning to face the muted TV that had some low-budget soap opera playing. Her stiff, grey hair stayed perfectly in place as she huffed and puffed in her chair. Her overly-exaggerated actions almost made her look like an annoyed teenager who had just been told "no."

I got lost in the soap opera for a moment. There was something about watching those shitty actors on mute that made it seem like they might almost be good at acting for a second. I felt something wet land on my arm and drew my attention back to the table where Mrs. White had accidentally flicked green paint onto my new lavender scrubs. I pursed my lips and sighed. It was only a small blot of paint, but they were my brand new scrubs. I tried not to be mad. I knew my face probably showed nothing more than indifference. I was good at hiding emotion when I wanted to.

"I'm sorry, Elizabeth," she said to me, glancing down at the table where she'd also dripped paint. "I'm so clumsy these days..."

I stood up. "It's okay, Mrs. White." Almost immediately after rising to my feet, behind me, I heard some kind of liquid splattering on the wood floor, like someone had poured their water straight onto the ground. I turned to see another woman, Miss Jane, with her elastic-waisted pants around her ankles, her Depends diaper around her knees, and her bare butt hovering just over the side of an empty vase beside the doorway to the community room. I gasped as I realized that she was mistaking the vase for a toilet. Though she was aiming for the vase, she was really getting half of her pee into the vase and the other half of it on her shoes and the floor.

"No, don't!" I blurted, a natural reaction to Miss Jane's mistake. The old woman jumped, my outburst having scared her. She stumbled backward and tipped over the vase. I could hear the urine in the vase slosh before the vase hit the floor. It was like it was happening in slow motion. It was another natural reaction for me to stoop down and try to stop the vase from tipping completely over, but I was too late, and the vase bounced onto the floor, showering me in warm old lady piss. I stood slowly, held back a gag, and shuddered. In the corner of the room, my coworker Shelley merely cackled, still scratching under the heap of hair tied up on her head.

"Not the first time that's happened. Next time, let her finish peeing. Easier to clean up if you don't knock over the vase," Shelley said, looking nonchalantly at the old man painting beside her.

By the end of the day, I was defeated. Done. Grossed out. A little depressed. How could I do this job? How could I last more than a week? How did Nicolle and Shelley work so long in a place with people who couldn't go to the bathroom on their own or even remember who their own kids were? I knew what I was getting into by taking this nursing home job... but then again, I didn't.

I wheeled into the parking lot at my apartment complex and dragged my body from the front seat of my car. No sooner had I set my feet on the pavement did Wilson come bouncing jovially around the corner of the quad. He was decked out in his cop uniform.

"I've been waiting for you!" He said. He had to have been staring out the window of his apartment until I drove up. Unless maybe he was standing outside the quad waiting for me too. I wondered how long he'd been waiting. His blonde hair was slicked back so tightly that it didn't move as he bounded toward me.

I had forgotten about our dinner. I wanted to groan. It was times like these I wished I had the power to make myself vomit on command. If I could have one super power, it would be to vomit whenever I wanted just so I could weasel my way out of hanging out with people.

"Can I take a rain check on dinner? I've had a hard day... my stomach is hurtin-" I started.

"No escaping your birthday! Your dad told me you're not much of a birthday person but I'm going to force you to dinner!" Wilson said, locking my small wrist in a tight clasp of his fingers and pulling me toward his cop car.

I silently cursed my dad for telling Wilson about my birthday at all. "Wilson, I just really am so tired- I mean, I'm covered in pee and-"

"No excuse is going to get you out of this. Your daddio said you would try every excuse in the book so I'm not buying it."

I was trying to find a way to free my wrist from his grip without making it seem like I was whipping my hand away from him, but he was not letting loose.

"I made reservations for 7:00 and it's 6:45! We have to get there," he said hurriedly, opening the back door to his cop car. "Let's get to bangin' on all cylinders."

I hesitated, suddenly the only thought occupying my mind: "Wait... you want me to ride in the back?"

"Awkward, I know," Wilson said, uneasily sighing and laughing at the same time. "You can't ride in the front unless you're a cop."

"I didn't know that was a thing..." I said slowly.

"It's a thing. Big thing. Big thing," Wilson said. He looked impatiently at the watch on his wrist and bounced his knees. "We gotta get going though so jump in! The back is not that bad, I promise. It'll be fun. A good party story later in life. Tell your friends like 'hey, I rode in the back of a cop car once.'"

I stared into the black back seat where a gate was going to keep me from properly communicating with Wilson. The window was also barred. I looked over my shoulder at the blue low-rider I'd first seen him in the day that my father helped me move in. "We can't take that car?" I asked, pointing at it.

Wilson bounced on his toes. I could tell he was getting more and more annoyed with me as each second passed. Maybe I could piss him off enough to make him ditch his own date. He inhaled sharply. "I'm on call so we have to take the duty car. It's fun in the back! Don't worry."

I sighed heavily. There was no way this guy was letting up. "Can I change first? I'm covered in pee-"

"Good golly-wolly," Wilson laughed harshly. "Your dad was right. You really don't like your birthday-" He nearly pulled me into the back seat like I was a criminal. He slammed the door in my face, nearly crunching my foot in the process. I gawked at him, though he couldn't see me inside the tinted, barred window. He jogged around to the drivers' seat, and before I could protest dinner any more, flew backward out of the parking lot and onto the main street. He was speeding like crazy.

We came to a red light and he hummed angrily. I watched in disbelief as he flicked on his police siren and forced the cars to part like the Red Sea. He drove recklessly through another red light at an intersection, but all cars halted for him to speed through since he had his lights on. Meanwhile, he didn't seem to notice me sliding around all over the back seat.

We arrived at an Olive Garden. Wilson had to come let me out since my door wouldn't open from the inside. A family of four eyed me suspiciously in my nasty scrubs as I crawled ashamedly out of the grimy back seat of the cop car. Wilson didn't address me as he aggressively took my arm and pulled me into the restaurant. He shoved through the waiting crowd by the front door and tapped the bell at the hostess' desk obnoxiously. The hostess, who saw him approach and was going to speak to him even before he dinged her bell, froze with her mouth open. I tried not to laugh as I watched her face, a fake smile spreading from cheek to cheek as she kept her cool with this rude customer.

"Table for two? The wait will be about 45 minutes," she said.

"Reservation for Kilmer at 7:00. Sorry we are late. This one wouldn't stop bitching-" Wilson said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at me.

The hostess peeked over Wilson's shoulder at me. I made the classic "what-the-hell-is-this-dickhead-talking-about" face at her and she seemed to immediately read me. I was too tired to fight this. And by this, I meant Wilson as a whole. I had already accepted that this was going to be a disaster date I would talk about four years from now.

We sat at the table and ordered food. I watched Wilson's face as he handed his menu to the busty, blonde waitress who wrote down our order. His eyebrows were tightly drawn together and his jaw was clenched. Almost like a flip had switched, his face relaxed with a single blink and he smiled at me. "Happy birthday."

"My birthday is tomorrow," I said rudely, crossing my arms across my chest.

Wilson sighed heavily and relaxed in the booth seat we were in. "My, my, my. You are a little jokester, aren't you?"

I felt like he was trying to play off the fact that I was NOT, by any means, having a good time.

The waitress plopped down a basket of bread between the two of us. Wilson grabbed a stick and shoved half of it in his mouth. I watched as crumbs scattered down the front of his officer uniform, all blue this time instead of tan. He chewed with his mouth open, flecks of spit flying my direction and landing on my arms and hands. I crossed my arms across my chest as if it might actually help protect me from the flying spit. It didn't.

"Let me get a Miller Lite. Bud Lite. Whatever beer you have that's light," he said to the waitress, half of the bread still in his mouth.

"Aren't you on call?" I asked. "You shouldn't be drinking."

He winked at me. "I won't tell if you won't."

I sunk my head into my hands. "Good god..." I sighed, mainly to myself. Wilson ignored me.

We sat in silence after that. Wilson tapped his short, stubby fingers along the table and clicked his tongue as he looked around at the other dinner guests enjoying their carb-loaded meals in the yellow lighting of the restaurant. I didn't ever know it was possible to go from hero to zero so fast. Not that Wilson was ever a hero in my book, but he seemed like more of an asshat than ever. I was praying to God Wilson wouldn't get called into work for some kind of backup. I was dying to escape this dinner, but after three beers, light or not, I was terrified thinking about what kind of damage this careless cop could do when he wasn't in the right state of mind. Each time he ordered another beer, I would give him a death stare and tell him, "I don't think that's a good idea."

Each time, he ignored me and drank his next beer faster.

He motioned for the waitress to come to the table once more. Without him asking, she brought him another mug of beer and placed it in his outstretched hand.

“I really wish you wouldn’t drink another,” I said to Wilson, unable to look this asshole in the eyes anymore as he cupped his fourth mug of beer in his hands.

“Listen, if you’re going to be my girlfriend, you need to be less controlling. I can’t believe this is our first date and you’re already trying to control me,” he said, lifting the rim of the glass cup to his lips and sipping the beer.

There was such a drastic difference between how Wilson was talking to me and treating me now as opposed to how he had been with me in front of my father. I wanted to believe that he was just playing a role to appease my father and give me a good first impression that day, but even earlier this morning, when he asked me to dinner, he seemed to be a totally different person.

“What did you do today?” I asked him.

He sighed in annoyance. “I’ve been on call all day,” he told me, putting to rest any thought that I had about him maybe just having a rough day. Whether he had a good day or not didn’t give him the right to treat me like he was.

He polished off his fourth beer and signaled the waitress for another.

I leapt to my feet. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

Wilson just stared up at me.

I turned and made my way through the tables, the murmur of private conversations surrounding me as I turned my hips to squeeze through chairs and people. I walked back to where the kitchen was and met our waitress as she was rounding the corner of the kitchen with another beer in her hand.

“Don’t you have an alcohol serving limit?” I asked.

She blinked at me and began to stutter.

“He’s on call for work. For police work,” I explained, trying to make her feel bad.

“I mean, he’s the customer though… I didn’t know he was working. Anyway, what he chooses to drink is up to him.” She tried to push past me with the beer, but I put my hand on her shoulder and pushed her back.

“He’s not going to arrest you if you cut him off, you know,” I said.

She gasped at me. “That’s not what I thought would happen anyway-“

“So you’re just going to over-serve him alcohol to boost your tip?” I asked. I knew my tone was rude but I didn’t care. This was important. A few other waitresses had protectively gathered around the one who had been serving us.

“What’s the problem?”

The waitress inhaled sharply. “She just couldn’t find the bathroom. It’s this way to the left,” she told me, pointing a finger past me and waiting for me to try and bring up the alcohol issue again.

I glared at her, turned on my heel, and nearly ran to the bathroom. I pulled out my phone and googled the number of the Easton Police Department. I locked myself into a bathroom stall as the phone began to ring.

“Easton P. D., how can we help you?”

“Listen, I have a problem-" I said, running my finger over the latch on the bathroom door.

“Ma’am, let me transfer you to emergencies-"

“No! No,” I blurted. “This is about one of your employees. He’s on call right now. Officer Wilson Kilmer. He’s-"

“Oh… Hold on, sweetheart. I’m going to have to transfer you anyway.”

“What?” I asked. “To who??”

“Please hold.”

The phone began to ring again before I could speak to the receptionist anymore.

“Chief Moore speaking, who is this?” A voice sounded as quickly as the ringing had begun.

“Um, my name is Leah and I’ve got a problem with one of your officers. Officer Wilson Kilmer?”

The other end of the line was silent for a moment. “What has he done?”

“Nothing yet, I suppose. We’re at dinner and he said he’s on call and he’s just been drinking a lot. He’s intoxicated I think and I just want to make sure he doesn’t get called in. I don’t want him hurting someone because of a lapse in judgment caused by the beer,” I explained hurriedly.

“What?”

“I asked him to stop and even told the waitress to stop serving him but-"

“Is he wearing the uniform?”

I nodded and said, “Yes.”

“Where are you?” He asked.

“The Olive Garden on… uh…. I don’t know… I just moved to Easton like, three days ago. I’m so so sorry-”

“Miss, please. It’s okay. Thank you for the call. We’ll take care of it.” The line went dead.

I walked out of the stall and saw an older woman watching me in the reflection of the mirror as she wiped the water off of her hands. I knew she’d heard it all. She merely nodded at me once and smiled before throwing away her hand towel and exiting the bathroom. I walked to the sink and threw water on my face before peering at my own tired reflection in the mirror. God, this had been a long and eventful day.

When I walked back to the table, I was surprised to see Wilson throwing our food into to-go boxes. The food must have just arrived. He looked rushed.

“C’mere, Leah, come on. We’ve got to go. I called you a cab. I’ve got to go to work. They just called me in-“

“What??” I asked, shocked for a moment before I had the idea that maybe he was being called into work by the chief to get his ass chewed.

He grabbed his uniform jacket and threw some money down onto the table. He grabbed both of the boxes of food and pulled me by my wrist through the restaurant and out the door. As we walked out, another cop car turned slowly into the parking lot.

“James,” Wilson said seriously, coming to a halt as James pulled up in front of us and stepped out of the car. James had a cautious, and yet seemingly unnecessary, hand hovering close to the gun on his hip. James was also young, with short brown hair covered by his police hat and dimples so deep that you could fall into them if you got too close. He smiled faintly at me.

“Wilson-“

“James. What’s the problem?? Robbery?? Murder-“

“Hey, man. Why don’t you jump in the car and I’ll tell you on the way to the station?” James said, almost like he was talking to a confused child. He looked at me and blinked slowly.

Wilson didn’t even seem to remember that I was standing there as he sprinted around the front of the cop car and dove into the front passenger seat with both my dinner and his.

James instantly turned to me and lowered his voice. “Miss, we want to thank you for the call. I’d just be careful around him from now on.”

On, I was planning on it. I was planning on staying far, far away. I meant, as far away as I could while still living next door to him. James stepped back into the police car, closed the door, and sent one more sympathetic look my way as he drove away with Wilson.

At that moment, the taxi arrived. I hadn’t even thought about the fact that Wilson literally called me a taxi to drive me home. Not even something more clean and modern, like an uber or a lift. There was something about just looking at the rusty, yellow taxi that made me feel dirty - well, dirtier than I already was. I climbed into the cab slowly, avoiding a splash of grey mystery goop on the faux-leather seat and trying not to lean too far back. There was a rip in the seat behind my back, and I was nervous that if I relaxed too much, I'd be sucked into the trunk by some taxi-demon. I was hesitant to even pull the slick, greasy seatbelt across my still pee-stained scrubs.

The driver coughed so hard that I was worried a lung was going to hit the windshield. It was obvious he'd just polished off a cigarette, the smell lingering despite the car's open windows.

"Where to?" He croaked.

I almost couldn't remember my new address. "Marble Park apartments," I finally told him after racking my brain. He tried to make small talk, but I was too busy running over the events of the day to have a conversation with him.

When we got to the apartments, I paid the cigarette smoke-ridden cab driver and dragged myself out of the torn-up back seat, accidentally dragging my hand through the mystery goop I'd tried so hard to avoid the whole 20 minutes home. I groaned and wiped whatever the sticky residue was onto my pee-stained scrubs and sighed heavily and almost sing-song-y as I rounded the corner of the quad. It was dark outside, all except for the three, dim porch lights that were bright enough only to illuminate the three feet of porch there was for the first-floor apartments. The lamp post in the middle of the quad was also dimly lit.

I used the entirety of my body weight to open the front door to my apartment. I immediately dropped my purse, pulled my shirt over my head and pulled my pants down to my knees, using my feet to push them the rest of the way off of my legs. I walked straight back to my bathroom and didn't even wait for the water to turn hot before I had slumped against the shower wall, letting the water flow over my skin which felt like it had a thick layer of grime on it. Grime from being coughed and sneezed on. Grime from being peed on. Grime from Wilson's spit. Grime from the cab. It was like I could feel it coming off in layers as I dragged a bar of soap slowly over my skin.

I hadn't washed my hair because I liked to wash it in the mornings. I threw it up in a messy bun on top of my head. The bun looked way better than whatever mess Shelley had created with her own hair, if I did say so myself. I wiped the mascara off of where the steam from the shower had made it bleed down my cheeks. Took my contacts out. Threw on my glasses. Put on some old, purple sweats I had. Pulled on an old bralette. I walked into the kitchen of my apartment and opened the cupboard. Without giving it much thought, I snagged a bag of popcorn kernels, threw it into the microwave, and pressed the "six" button. I knew it wouldn't take that long, but I would stop it when the popcorn had popped. I stood, leaning my bare stomach against the cold, fake granite of the counter and stared blankly into the microwave. A ring from my phone snapped me out of my trance.

"Hello?" I answered.

There was no reply.

"Dad, are you there?"

I began to walk around my apartment, searching for a clear signal. I could hear bits and pieces of something my father was trying to say - probably just checking in on me - but I couldn't get a full sentence from him.

The call ended. I was standing by the window at the front of my apartment. I typed out a quick text to my father:

Couldn't hear you. We can try again tomorrow. I've had a long first day. Love you - L.

As I sent that text, I scrolled through some of the other text messages I'd been receiving from old friends for my birthday - Impersonal and brief "Happy Birthday!" messages that didn't bring me as much joy as they did in the past. Getting caught up in the messages, I didn't realize that my popcorn had begun to burn. The smell filled the apartment, and I scurried to tear the smoking bag out of the microwave. Smoke began to cloud the ceiling. I burned my finger on the top of the bag where the smoke was coming out and dropped the bag to the floor. Swearing, I hurried to the window and threw it open to prevent the single smoke detector in my apartment from releasing a shrill alarm and disrupting the peace of my new neighbors.

As I stood at the window, I rubbed my eyes with my uninjured fingers. I examined the part of my finger that stung from the burned bag of kernels.

"Alright?"

I nearly leapt out of my skin. I thought for a moment someone was standing in my apartment, but I finally realized that Harry was standing just outside the window. I hardly noticed him since it was so dark outside and he was still dressed in all sorts of dark colors.

"Fucks sake-" I exclaimed. "I- I- I'm okay. I'm fine. You scared the hell out of me-"

"I'm sorry," Harry laughed, coming a little bit closer to the window. The light from my kitchen illuminated his handsome face. It also allowed me to see that he was holding some sort of green gardening can. "I was just putting a little bit of plant food in Miss Jones' plants. I do it every week or so. Helps 'em stay alive," he explained.

"At night?" I asked.

"What?"

"At night? You feed the plants at this time of night?" I repeated, raising my wrist to look at a watch I realized wasn't there only after I'd checked the imaginary time.

Harry laughed awkwardly. "Eh, well, yes. She doesn't know I do it. At least, I don't think she does."

I stood and stared at him, becoming more consciously aware of my appearance and clothing (or lack thereof) and the fact that he'd probably been peeking in the window the whole time I'd burned my snack and been chasing some kind of cellular service. For as much as I wanted to be creeped out, my stomach was fluttering. He wasn't creeping in my window. He was feeding Miss Jones' plants. Her goddamn plants.

I walked out the front door and stood to the right side of my porch, leaning over the banister toward Harry's silhouette. He watched me only for a short moment before he returned to shaking some of the small pellets of plant food into the vases on the ground and the plants hanging from Miss Jones' porch. I wanted to ask him something. Tell him something. Have him ask me a question or anything to get us involved. However, I stood for a few minutes in silence, in the dim lighting from my kitchen and the small light in the middle of the quad, and listened to the plant food pellets tap against the sides of the plants' bowls and vases.

When he'd run out of plant food, Harry sighed softly. "Good night, then."

His feet brushed weightlessly against the grass as he began to walk away.

"Harry," I called quietly, almost as if I was whispering it to myself.

He stopped. I saw the black shape of his body turn toward me, his figure becoming more visual as he stepped closer into the small amount of light from the kitchen again. He stood and waited without saying anything.

I had a sudden wave of confidence wash over my body. I stood up straight, sticking out my chest even though I know he couldn't really see my perky breasts in my bralette. I took a deep breath, but just as quickly as the confidence had come, it went away. "Um-" I started. My inner self was begging me to say something. Anything.

"Come inside?" I said. I asked. I whispered. I basically breathed it. I wondered if he even heard me. I felt like an absolute dumbass. Should I repeat myself? What if he said no? It was late. Surely he would say no. What was I inviting him in for? Burnt popcorn? I didn't know what part of me was asking him into my apartment, but could only imagine it wasn't for a cup of tea and small talk. What did I think was going to happen? He was going to just lean in and kiss me and-

"Sure."

"What?" I asked.

"I'll come in. Let me take a look at your finger," he said.

Like that morning, I had to keep my mouth from falling open. I turned around abruptly and opened my front door for him. He followed me inside. He moved so quickly and so silently that I just about jumped out of my skin again when I turned around and he was standing only eight inches from me. He gripped my hand and extended my fingers, like he had the day I was moving in. This time, however, I let him look, even though there was nothing there anymore. No evidence of any serious damage.

"I think you'll survive," he told me after evaluating the non-existent injury. "Your heart line here is showing some pretty interesting stuff, though," he said, dragging a long finger along one of the creases in the palm of my hand.

"What?" I asked, kind of laughing to myself. I'd never much believed in palm-reading or horoscopes or anything like that, but it was always interesting to read about and learn about. "What does it say?" I asked him, looking down at my own palm.

"It's about your love life," he said. "Did you have a good date tonight?"

"No," I gushed, looking up into Harry's eyes. I laughed just thinking about it. "It was a disaster. Does the palm say I'm destined for a long, devoted, and romantic relationship with Wilson? After tonight, I'd rather die before having to spend more time with him."

Harry's mouth curled into a small, almost triumphant smile, but he shook his head. "It says something about a tall brunette kissing you. Unless you object."

My heart pounded in my chest. "Oh?" I squeaked, nearly losing the ability to speak. "My palm is that specific?" I asked.

Harry took a step toward me and began to lean in. "I don't know," Harry chuckled. "I can't read palms."

I lifted my mouth to meet his. I began to instantly feel drowsy, like the room was spinning and I was going weak. Harry wrapped an arm around my lower back and pulled my body more into his. I felt like fireworks were exploding in my stomach. His lips were warm and full. I wanted to sink my teeth into them. Without separating our lips, I began to pull him toward my bedroom, tugging at the hem of his black shirt as we went. Clothes began to litter the living room. I flicked off the lights as we neared the bedroom. For as much as I wanted to look at Harry's handsome face, just the feeling of his mouth, which was making its way up and down my neck, was creating an overwhelming sense of euphoria in me.

He was like a drug, his touch giving me an immediate high. As he pulled his fingernails over my skin, a line of goosebumps followed. His moans as he felt my body were giving me a confidence I didn't know I had. I remember that he was on top of me, kissing down my stomach. I was on top of him, sucking on the soft skin of his neck. His hands were twisting into my hair and I was tugging on his. We were twisting and turning around each other, around the sheets... tangling our lips, our legs, our arms... and before I knew it, the sun was coming up.

I blinked my eyes open. I stretched and turned my neck to look at Harry beside me... only he wasn't there. The sheets were tousled like someone had been there, but any other evidence of Harry was gone.

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