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17 on earth we're briefly gorgeous
Summertime has set into the walls of the apartment building in the city; the blossoming of beautifully coloured flowers dotting the streets like discarded stars. The artists have begun moving into the park across the street again—easels perched, tan against green, and paints planted amongst the dandelions. A hushed, melancholic lullaby curves within the bustling streets: the sounds of high heels against pavement making a steady beat, and street performers, guitars in hand and microphones steady in front of them igniting the melody. Even a stray fiddle can be heard from across the park. Sun streaming through the wide open windows of the room, it reflects off the carefully placed trinkets amongst the bright green leaves of Mercy's well taken care of plant collection—bright budding flowers stark against the white walls and wide glass window panes. It's perfect. A painting of colour and soft edges.
The time is 3pm and the summer afternoon heat creeps up the walls, settling into the spine of the walls, and causing the dull pain of a headache to come to rest in Mercy's temples. With firm fingers, she rubs her face in an effort to ease the ache, sighing and shaking out her hair from its braids when the attempt fails. The aspirin sits on a white shelf in the other room. Her fingers twitch.
Pulling herself together, Mercy sluggishly moves from the couch and into the bathroom, letting two tablets slide into the palm of her hand. A small sip of water and she lets it linger, the tablets dissolving on the tip of her tongue. She feels them slide down her throat and begin the patient waiting for the pain to subside. It's going to take a while. Mercy wrenches open the door to the balcony, leaning against the metal railing and pulling a crumpled packet of Marlboros from the pocket of her overalls.
Mercy doesn't remember when the fading cherry-red end of a cigarette became a norm in her life; another part of her regimented routine that demanded its place within the space of her day. Staring at the stick of nicotine carefully perched between two fingers, she thoughtfully thumbs the end of the cigarette and bites her lip. As she breathes out, it feels like the clouds pool from her red-bitten lips in wisps—the air open and strong. Mercy looks down at the unlit cigarette. It's not her only vice; she bleeds from the scars of teenage exploitation. The orange flickering of a lighter amongst the dark of the landscape, red brick sprayed white as their knees crack with their inhibitions, and the reverb of skate wheels vibrating the trucks of their boards as they soar freely through the naked, midnight streets.
