Slow Dance (ASAHR Third Person)

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"Andrea Rose! Breakfast is ready!"

Andy woke to her mother yelling up the stairs in that pleasant, sing-song voice she had. The one she only used first thing in the morning. After 11 a.m., the mundane annoyances of the everyday housewife— shopping at the market, finding a new accent to coordinate into the living room décor, shooing the next door neighbor's lump of a cat from his chosen napping spot atop the morning newspaper on the porch, looking up DIY projects to show up all the other housewives—saps her of what little patience she possesses. After 11 a.m., the only interactions to be had from her consisted of short, monosyllable responses while she fixes the first of many apple martinis.

"Mum said breakfast's ready."

Andy lifted her head up from her pillow begrudgingly. Her brother leaned against the doorframe to her room, an apple in one hand. He took a large bite from it, and a bit of juice dribbled down the side of his chin. He wiped it with his sleeve as he chewed. Sunlight streamed through the cracks of the blinds, illuminating the bedroom. Andy clamped her eyelids closed to shield them from the light.

"Oh, thank you, Justin. Because I couldn't have possibly heard mother's shrill call from the kitchen," she said, folding back her sheets and sliding her legs out onto the floor. He smiled, flipping her the bird with his left hand as he took another bite. She threw her pillow at him.

"Mum! Justin's being a nuisance!" she yelled. He made another obscene gesture and she returned it.

"Justin! Stop harassing Andrea and the both of you come down for breakfast. You need to leave in less than an hour!" A stern male voice called up the stairs. Andy got up and closed the door in Justin's face. She heard him chuckle and walk off down the hall.

Andy plopped down in front of her vanity and rubbed her eyes, trying to wake up. She picked up the silver handle of her hairbrush and ran it through her long dark hair, letting it fall over her shoulders. Her mother often admired her hair, but Andy did not care much for it. It looked lovely straight, with no effort on her part, but she could rarely style it to do anything different. She set her brush down, and with a quick application of clear lip balm, deemed her appearance adequate for a long train ride. She grabbed her favorite hoodie hanging off the side of her bed and pulled it over her head. Her favorite dance studio's logo displayed across the front of it. Pulling on some comfy boots, she turned her attention to the giant trunk taking up a good portion of her bedroom floor.

The sound of the trunk scraping along the wooden floor echoed through the empty upstairs hallway. Andy tugged it from one of its large, brass handles, but every few steps the edge got caught on the hall rug. By the time she reached the top of the stairs, Andy dropped the handle. She stepped clumsily over the trunk and, with one forceful kick, sent the trunk careening down the flight of stairs. She giggled as she watched the trunk dip, slide, crash and thump along the wall and railing. It rolled down the last few steps before landing with a thud upside down in the foyer.

"I told you not to do that!" The same stern male voice yelled from the kitchen. A bespectacled man charged out from the archway that led to the kitchen, a cloth napkin hanging crooked from the collar of his buttoned up dress shirt, protecting his tie from any stray crumbs or spills before work.

"It slipped! Chillax, Daddy. You'll pop a blood vessel or something," Andy said, skipping down the stairs, not at all deterred by his agitated stance. She kissed him on the cheek before heading into the kitchen.

"You can't act that way at school this year, Andrea. I will not have another note from Dumbledore saying you're misbehaving."

"Daddy, I'm an angel," she said. Justin snorted into his pancakes.

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