percent cocoa, please.”
“I don’t have time to work out antioxidant content right now,” Scarlet yelled back. “I’d spell it out for you but I don’t have any crayons with me.”
“A little tense, are we?” Petula chided as she glided down the stairs. “Maybe you should chow down on a piece of that dark chocolate and get your blood pressure in check.”
“Thank you, Doctor Google,” Scarlet snarked. “You are a regular search engine scholar.”
“I’m just trying to be helpful,” Petula said. “You don’t want to turn your pretty pale face red before Damen gets back.”
“He’s not coming home,” Scarlet said, trying to play it off.
“Ouch,” Petula consoled, barely masking her glee. “Absence makes the heart grow fungus, I guess.”
Petula picked up Scarlet’s baby and began talking to it in her trademark passive-aggressive way.
“I know she appears to be heartless,” she said to the baby. “But don’t worry: I’m sure she has four or five backup hearts in the freezer.”
Classic Petula, Scarlet thought, going right for the jugular like that. For every flicker of compassion she occasionally showed these days, she could still flame-broil you with cruelty. The frosty relationship between them had thawed somewhat since “the coma,” but lately Petula just seemed more distant than ever. Scarlet figured they were like strangers who clutched each other tightly during a rough flight but returned to business as usual once the pilot regained control and the plane landed safely.
“Hate you,” Scarlet called out sweetly as Petula made her way out the front door.
“Hate you too,” came the sugary reply.
Much like Scarlet’s wardrobe, her decor was evolving too. Long gone, courtesy of a wet sponge and sharp straightedge razor blade, were the band bumper stickers that had transformed her bathroom into a museum-quality reproduction of a stall at a punk club. They had been replaced by strings of exposed lightbulbs hanging from the vanity in bunched bouquets. It was her modern interpretation of a 1920s chandelier.
Her bedroom looked like an old Hollywood boudoir, kind of art nouveau with an eccentric twist. She even had a real vanity with all kinds of jewelry, compacts, perfume bottles, and powders. She still had all the rare indie movie posters hanging in her room, but now they were displayed in ornate gold frames. It was that way with her too. She was the same, just kind of framed differently.
Scarlet started picking up stuff off the floor and straightening up her bed. She wanted her room to look perfect for her V-Day cyber chat with Damen, and she hadn’t gotten around to bagging her things up and dropping them off yet. Petula had helped de-bulk the pile some, but for whatever reason, Scarlet just could not bring herself to part with the rest.
She soon found herself rummaging through the remainder of the heap. She could have opened a vintage shop with all the stuff she had, but those outfits were so personal to her, so much a part of her past, her identity. She would rather toss them than sell them.
She could still smell the memories in them, put them on and be there, back in the moment. She wasn’t the sentimental type, by any means, but she found herself missing the old Scarlet, even envying the self that existed before she fell in love. Love did change you, that much was true, she conceded, but not as much as you change yourself.
The whole idea of transforming into someone or something else was all starting to get to her, so she decided to go for a little walk to clear her head. She wandered around town, stopping at IdentiTea for a free drink—courtesy of her employee discount—then to some little vintage stores and record shops she and Damen used to hit on Saturday afternoons.
Around the corner, she poked her head into Split, the all-ages club where she’d see new bands. It had changed ownership and decor a few times in the past few years, but the kids were still coming
“I don’t have time to work out antioxidant content right now,” Scarlet yelled back. “I’d spell it out for you but I don’t have any crayons with me.”
“A little tense, are we?” Petula chided as she glided down the stairs. “Maybe you should chow down on a piece of that dark chocolate and get your blood pressure in check.”
“Thank you, Doctor Google,” Scarlet snarked. “You are a regular search engine scholar.”
“I’m just trying to be helpful,” Petula said. “You don’t want to turn your pretty pale face red before Damen gets back.”
“He’s not coming home,” Scarlet said, trying to play it off.
“Ouch,” Petula consoled, barely masking her glee. “Absence makes the heart grow fungus, I guess.”
Petula picked up Scarlet’s baby and began talking to it in her trademark passive-aggressive way.
“I know she appears to be heartless,” she said to the baby. “But don’t worry: I’m sure she has four or five backup hearts in the freezer.”
Classic Petula, Scarlet thought, going right for the jugular like that. For every flicker of compassion she occasionally showed these days, she could still flame-broil you with cruelty. The frosty relationship between them had thawed somewhat since “the coma,” but lately Petula just seemed more distant than ever. Scarlet figured they were like strangers who clutched each other tightly during a rough flight but returned to business as usual once the pilot regained control and the plane landed safely.
“Hate you,” Scarlet called out sweetly as Petula made her way out the front door.
“Hate you too,” came the sugary reply.
Much like Scarlet’s wardrobe, her decor was evolving too. Long gone, courtesy of a wet sponge and sharp straightedge razor blade, were the band bumper stickers that had transformed her bathroom into a museum-quality reproduction of a stall at a punk club. They had been replaced by strings of exposed lightbulbs hanging from the vanity in bunched bouquets. It was her modern interpretation of a 1920s chandelier.
Her bedroom looked like an old Hollywood boudoir, kind of art nouveau with an eccentric twist. She even had a real vanity with all kinds of jewelry, compacts, perfume bottles, and powders. She still had all the rare indie movie posters hanging in her room, but now they were displayed in ornate gold frames. It was that way with her too. She was the same, just kind of framed differently.
Scarlet started picking up stuff off the floor and straightening up her bed. She wanted her room to look perfect for her V-Day cyber chat with Damen, and she hadn’t gotten around to bagging her things up and dropping them off yet. Petula had helped de-bulk the pile some, but for whatever reason, Scarlet just could not bring herself to part with the rest.
She soon found herself rummaging through the remainder of the heap. She could have opened a vintage shop with all the stuff she had, but those outfits were so personal to her, so much a part of her past, her identity. She would rather toss them than sell them.
She could still smell the memories in them, put them on and be there, back in the moment. She wasn’t the sentimental type, by any means, but she found herself missing the old Scarlet, even envying the self that existed before she fell in love. Love did change you, that much was true, she conceded, but not as much as you change yourself.
The whole idea of transforming into someone or something else was all starting to get to her, so she decided to go for a little walk to clear her head. She wandered around town, stopping at IdentiTea for a free drink—courtesy of her employee discount—then to some little vintage stores and record shops she and Damen used to hit on Saturday afternoons.
Around the corner, she poked her head into Split, the all-ages club where she’d see new bands. It had changed ownership and decor a few times in the past few years, but the kids were still coming
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