Daedalus

ugh the cynicism

There's something oddly beautiful about the way she tortures her body with smoke, head tipped back, as if to accept a waterfall into her mouth, so that her ginger tresses spill like wine behind the back of the rocking chair in which she sways to and fro, lids swiped over eyes as green as our newly experienced springtime, lashes, as an effect, tickling milk-white skin dotted by freckles the color of caramel, a whole plethora of nonchalance's blessings. Legs botoxed by athleticism tilt her chair ever so gently, while her arms repose on the wooden wings of the structure. Although almost three decades old, her personality has not aged a day over seventeen, forever suspended in youth. If one were unaware that she is a saleswoman, they would probably receive the impression that she climbs trees as a frequent hobby, derived from the calluses on her hands, the density of strength in a tiny body, and her general wild appearance. There is a certain ruggedness to beauty, and this is the flagrant aesthetic of twenty-seven year-old Fleming Konecky, nothing short of serene in this moment.

I could observe her forever in this state, but she has other plans for me. Instead of modeling for the agency of carelessness, she elects to speak, and when she speaks, she directs the flow of nature itself. "Anyway, Basil, why are you so worried about Lent living a life beyond cold bread at two o'clock in the morning, and artistic frustration?" Fleming hoists an accusatory brow higher on her pallid forehead, which only serves to convince me that I'm somehow the villain for being fucking worried about my best friend.

"France is a whole different country, Fleming, and so is the Czech Republic! Neither of us have been there before, and this plan was thrown together only last night!" I protest, but Fleming waves it away with her goddamn practicality.

"Do I have to be your mom?" She sighs, but she doesn't anticipate my answer, for she already knows exactly what it would be. "You can call me if you need anything. I should be on speed dial, if you followed my advice when you first bought your phone."

I dress myself in obvious sarcasm, quipping, "Sure, yeah, I'll call you — if I don't get murdered first."

Groaning, Fleming realizes just how much of a baby I am, just how paranoid I am, just how much fixing me will demand. "French people are really polite. I'm sure you'll be fine, and by the time you reach Prague, you will have adjusted to life in an unfamiliar country, and you'll be floating on cloud 9. I promise."

"This still seems like a horrible idea, Fleming."

"Goddamn hermit," Fleming mutters, clenching her dwindling cigarette between slender fingers notched by protruding bones. "You were the one who was complaining about how artistically drained you are last night. I'm just trying to help you."

That's all Fleming seems to do — try to help me. I may be eight years younger than her, but I am still capable of making my own decisions, and having those decisions not end in turmoil. I am not a child while she is a teenager; that is not how our age gap works. We are both in age ranges where we are conscious of our choices, where we are conscious of how to make choices so that our goals can be achieved. I am in no need of help. Yeah, I may not sleep as much as I should, but I would probably sleep less if Fleming were hovering over me all night. Yeah, I may be tainted by haggardness more often than not, but no amount of hygienic practices will fix the root of the cause: my rotting soul. Yeah, I may spend a lot of time alone, but that time does not seem wasted in comparison to using it on extroversion. I don't need help, and I have labored to drill this into her brain, but she is the mother of the group, and a nagging one at that, so she doesn't give a shit, finding herself to be the wisest of the wise. Okay, I do appreciate her intentions, but I'm nineteen years old. Even if I do need help, I don't necessitate this much of it.

"I don't need Paris and Prague to tell me who I am. I can figure myself out in Milwaukee," I inform the older woman, though my tone is shaky enough for her to pounce on it, for her to destroy it.

"Fuck that. You hate Milwaukee."

"True, but I hate impulsivity more."

Fleming's cigarette freezes right by the entrance to her mouth, and her vision subtly shifts from her nicotine over to me, as sleek as a cat would do it. "Wow, the movies gave me the wrong impression of writers."

I nod. "Yeah, the movies often exclude the part where I choke on lemonade every other sip, and where I fall off of my chair due to a lack of presence in my own body."

Neglecting her cigarette entirely, and instead lowering it to her lap, Fleming's lashes flutter against her cheeks multiple times in a rapid set, and her demeanor changes to one of intrigue. "Tell me, Basil — do you want to be the kind of writer I see in movies?"

I mull this over for a moment, considering both the wreck Hollywood writers seem to be (although I'm not much better, am I?), and the enjoyment they extract from life, and I answer my friend. "I suppose. They seem much more...sure of themselves."

This is just the response Fleming had hoped for, and fragments of a smile narrowly shine through her taffied lips. "Then go to Paris with your charming young Icarus, and see where you land after two weeks." Regarding the matter as settled, Fleming finally sucks the poisonous juice out of her cigarette, and reclines in her rocking chair.

"You should really consider becoming a lawyer," I suggest, amazed by her problem solving skills.

Utterly amused, Fleming's eyes switch around within their whites. "I'm already practically your mother."

~~~~~

A/N: Fleming is literally queen oh my god

but ye shit gets lit

~Dickota