Muse.

Prosecco and Introductions

The apartment's interior looks like a cross between a wine cellar and a monastery. Stone archways frame the entrance to a dining room on one side and a parlor on the other side of the ivory tiled foyer. Great cedar beams support white vaulted ceilings.

Upon entering the apartment, aggressive barking resounds somewhere upstairs. A moment later, a pair of dobermans rocket down the curved staircase and greet us with sloppy tongues and toothy smiles. They sniff Pieck and I warily, but soon decide we mean their owner no harm.

As I trail Jean, Mikasa, and Sasha down a hallway under the elegantly curved staircase, we pass under a row of white peaks that look like the inside of a row of canine teeth. Strange red prints hang under each peak. Every work is displayed by its own light embedded in the ceiling. Signatures are scrawled in the right corner denoting the pieces as original. Despite the valuable art, some of the frames hang off kilter and one is leaned against the wall with its glass cracked.

On the other end of the hallway, we come out into an open concept, unlike the traditional front. A row of narrow, two-story windows look out onto a stone terrace, lined with pots of leafless shrubbery protruding like bony fingers from the snow that blankets everything but an illuminated hot tub tucked to one side and breathing white mist into the black sky.

Before the view stands a living area sectioned into the suggestion of separate rooms by the original stone pillars of The Carlisle and Persian rugs. Before a proud brick fireplace, curved leather couches are cracked out of their designated circle to make space for a party. The right half of the space is divided into a study and kitchen.

Disembodied voices sound from the kitchen, while the study's round table is occupied by none other than the fair haired Princeling from my film class along with two open laptops, a clutter of pens and ink, and assorted stacks of loose leaf paper. He is utterly engrossed with his hands laced in his hair and his eyes squinted down at his work. He doesn't notice us come in.

I follow Mikasa towards the kitchen, where a group of art students play bartender with an obscene collection of glass bottles strewn atop a dark granite island. They laugh and argue with each other over their concoctions.

"Hi everyone!" Sasha announces our arrival with arms thrown up in a theatric ta-dah. "We've arrived!"

"Sash!" A boy with a close shaved head, icy grey hair, and those thick lashes that only a boy can maintain, rockets out of the kitchen and lifts up his friend with a ferocious hug.

I wonder if that grey color is natural.

Behind him, the clatter in the kitchen quiets slightly and another boy's voice calls, "Anyone know how to make an old-fashioned?"

"Ew," I shudder.

"I do," says Pieck to our immediate group.

I give her a look mingled with surprise and disturbance. "You're a dark liquor girl?"

"My dad loves them," she explains.

"Ok.." I say with a sideways glance at her. "In that case, we should help them out."

"Sounds good," says Mikasa. "I need a drink." She looks like she means it.

"Oh! I almost forgot. We have wine!" I pull out a sauvignon blanc and Prosecco from the paper tote under my arm.

"Yum," says Mikasa. "Lets get some glasses.

I glance over at the boy who has now put Sasha down and appears engrossed in Pieck and I's conversation. His eyes are glassed over watching us. He notices Pieck and I noticing him and extends his hand. "I'm Connie."