author's note: hello, readers of Soft Serve, a spin-off of Polka Dots. while i had promised that it would be about vincent lyle long ago when i first dreamed up this story, i suck at writing those types of stories so i had to change the story around. thank you everyone who reads this, and yes, it will be as short as Polka Dots was.
this chapter is more of a prologue - the action (for lack of a better word) begins in the second chapter that's set a month later than this one, but it is labeled as the first chapter because this story only has like... five chapters, so why not?
|| dedicated to calculators for being one of my most valued readers of the predecessor/spin-off, Polka Dots. your comments made me feel so special because you're such an amazing writer so i was confused as to why and how you stumbled upon my works ||
P A R T O N E :
B R I E F S
Doing the laundry was my least favorite thing in the world, especially in a place like New York. Because I was adamant on saving gas, something my mother had drilled into me early on in life when bills struggled to be paid, I had convinced myself not to buy a drying machine when my parents had taken me to Best Buy to help me furnish my new apartment. Instead, one year later, I found myself air-drying my clothes on the balcony, trying to get them dried before the rapidly-approaching dark came and the sky would no longer be warm enough.
But in some ways, it wasn't all that bad. I had the city, leagues below me, a twisting maze of cars and people with their own stories to tell and it was all shifting and shaking as I watched it from where I stood. It was quite a view, a picture that was worth not only a thousand words, but a thousand dollars as well.
My apartment was a convenient set up, decently priced with the matching luxuries, and it was even more convenient in its location. I sat here, perched high above a busy street where I was exposed to a full and constantly varying picture of New York life. A year later since moving here from Indiana and I still felt dazzled by it all, as if I stepped into a magic show and not a congested sidewalk. The only way to make it feel more mundane was for me to be waiting on my clothes to dry on the line while my next door neighbor was throwing one of his expensive parties.
I heard from the staff and everyone that he was apparently some hotshot model manager - not exactly a famous enough profession for their to be camera crews flocking the doorways like pigeons, but famous enough to bring the famous people to his house - and he rented that apartment as a hideaway to throw sick and costly parties. While the idea of living so close to famous people had intrigued me, he seemed like just another Elisa Silverman, someone who managed to stretch their fifteen minutes of fame into twenty and soon would be long forgotten. He had to have been if he were only paying $200,000 a year for his lodging when he could've been in the penthouse suite or in his own mansion.
I gingerly brushed the shirt that was hanging up on the line with my finger, feeling the cold and damp fabric. I pulled my finger away from it, cursing as I wiped it against my jeans. It was six o'clock now, and if these didn't dry by seven, they would end up being brought back in the house where they will grow mildew.
I sighed in defeat, wanting to go back inside and grab a magazine, when the door of my neighbor's house opened, a familiar boy stepping out, almost as striking as the sound of pumping bass from the expensive speakers the DJ must've set up. He was wearing a tank top and some shorts with boat shoes on his feet and sunglasses over his eyes. With curly brown hair on his head that stuck out from underneath the SnapBack he had on over it, he was quite attractive, but at the same time, quite menacing.