The story so far:
I sat quietly in the shadows of an oak tree. I felt warm dressed in my usual uniform of jeans, white t-shirt and linen jacket. She moved up and down the pavement across the road, a smile painted on in bright red lipstick. I never liked red lipstick until I saw "My Muse" for the first time. My mother used to wear it whenever she wanted to pretend being beautiful. The attempt usually amplified her pale sickly skin and her watery eyes. She would ask me how close her resemblance to Rita Hayward was and I would shrug my shoulders. She would ruffle my hair and say something funny like, "oh you are such a tease".
My mother was a good woman, that was before my father died. After he died she changed into someone I felt like I knew, but didn't really. She tried to be a good mother to me, but I wasn't very co operative. After a while her good intentions were somewhat strained. She would talk to herself a lot. I probably contributed to that as I usually didn't show much interest in what she had to say. She took on two jobs. One ended at 3pm so that she would be home after school and one started at 6pm. I knew she worked at the post office during the day, but I was unsure of the evening job. It never crossed my mind to ask, perhaps I didnt want to know.
My dinner would be left in the warming drawer of the oven and the TV would be turned onto my favourite channel before she pulled on her coat, a hat. She would have her hand on the door knob as she promised me pancakes for breakfast and then the door would slam and the silence of being alone in our apartment would descend upon me. The tv voices would amplify and I would huddle on the couch draped in a tartan wool blanket. Exhaustion would eventually win and I would reclaim my awareness at the sound of the door opening and closing. My eyes would remain closed as I listened to her footseps going into the kitchen. The clanging of plates and pans and then the sizzle of the pancakes. She would touch my shoulder and then kiss me on the forehead. After a moment I would feel her shaking me and my eyes would slowly open and I would fake a yawn and grumbily get up and drag my feet to the kitcehen table. She was good at making pancakes.
The girl spun around, her heavy dark hair barely moved in the twirl. I imagined myself dancing with her, spinning her around and around. In my vision I would be wearing a black tuxedo and she would be wearing a white silk dress and her hair would be blowing in the breeze, framing her delicate face. She would have her arms draped over my shoulders, her face turned up to the light of the moon. My lips curved up on one side and that smile moved through me. It felt like my heart was smiling. I could feel my blood running through my veins warm and alive. In that moment I could hear my typewriter calling to me.
It was late in the afternoon when I got home. I couldn't find the inspiration to eat, but I typed my story with all the energy that was within me until all I could feel was the chill of the night air on my arms and stiffness in my fingers. The clock on the wall above my bed informed me that it was midnight. At night was the only time I felt normal, lying in my bed, my legs stretched out in front of me. I closed my eyes and saw the red smile that now haunted my sleep. Tomorrow I would see her again. I wondered if she would be wearing the same striped leggings and yellow t-shirt. I hoped she would. There was comfort in the regular. I felt like I knew her, like she was part of me. Seeing her was like breathing. And as sleep beckoned, I welcomed it in, drifting off into the darkness of my unconsiousness.