SOCIALPATIBILITY

LITTLE PONEYS 🦄

This day was long. Thank goodness I will start deliveries at 11 AM tomorrow.

I search for food I don't have in my Aladdin PJ and slippers. I sit down to a plate of nori, rice, and tuna Lee Lou left before my Cintiq 27QHD; I must finish this chapter tonight.

I'm about to start, and the doorbell rings. It's one fucking AM, for fuck sake.

We're in New York, and like most people, I'm a little paranoid at this hour, so frying pan in hand, I go to the door, look at the peephole, and open it.

"Oh, Scott, you scared me," I gush out.

Scott is my neighbor; he has the type of face you would associate with Ryders, Dylans, and Scotts. He's your CK undies advert guy. Scott is hot like charcoal in a locomotive in motion and the God of womanizers.

"Sorry to bother you, Hava, but have you got any condoms?" Scott says in his Adams attire, wrapped in a duvet.

"Scott, how often have we told you we are not distributors."

I turn to fetch our fruit basket, which has everything except fruit in it from the table. Lee Lou and I have a motto: safe sex will save the world. We have this basket where friends can pick condoms when they come over if they are short.

"Help yourself."

"Thanks, Hava, you are a lifesaver," Scott says as he picks a glow in the dark, a studded, flavored, and pleasure-shaped."

"Wow, Scott, do you really think you'll—."

"Well, I need the entrée, the main course, dessert, and the digestive."

"You're crazy."

"Come to me anytime; I'll fix you up, babe. Sex opens chakras."

"I'll pass," I reply.

"Scotty," I hear a queasy, slurry voice coming from next door.

"Duty calls. Got to go."

"Keep the noise down."

From the grin Scott gives me, I know the walls will rock. I go back inside and start eating while I check what I've done so far. I like the storyboard; it's about people in limbo. They don't remember anything; they get new names with the wheel of names, and also, according to their sins, they have another original appearance.

So I have a unicorn head woman, a dickheaded guy, a human, an alien, a fallen angel, and a dog. Their mission is to try to get out of there. With 15 years of drawing behind me and 18 years of manga addiction, I can say I have mastered my art.

If you want to know my drawing style, it's as though you crossed Takashi Obata, Hiroyo Oku, and you have my Little Poney's vomiting rainbows on the side.

I start filling in, making sure the scenes aren't too dark. There's nothing I hate more than pitchy black squares where the only detail you can see is the speech bubble. I stop holding my stylus to the Cintiq.

What would he think if he read this?

Sometimes, he pops into my mind; it's wild right to think of someone you barely know. Still, this guy is the only person I have thought of from my hometown since I got here. He was my revelation; he moved away before our senior year. I never got to tell him what an eye-opener he was for me. People said he came to live in New York, so you can imagine what I did when I arrived.

I Googled him—Julian Duval.

To find him here is like looking for a black grain of sand on the seabed.

I pick up where I left off on my Cintiq; there's no point in thinking about a guy you'll never meet in this dimension unless X-men's Nightcrawler warps me to his side.Julian wouldn't recognize me anyway; I am far from the pretty, primed, clean-mouth Hava. No one would crown me prom queen, but he isn't the type of guy to care about looks and status.

He's a real human, not superficial, and with no additives. He was honest and bold, no matter what people said about him in high school. The guy kept his head up; where others needed a clique, Julien would sit alone and draw. He was talented, and it pissed me off to see how he could create without using stencils or any draft. Julian was a pilar of resillance. One could shove his head down the toilet on Monday, and the next, Julian would say hi as though nothing happened.

Like many, I was not much help. I watched people bully him. It was not like it was gratifying or anything; I just did not care much. When I think about that time, I feel like inflicting myself a harakiri in the middle of Times Square.

I am all fired up and inspired. That's what thinking of Julian does to me, as I promise myself that one day, I will show him what an exceptional human I have become. The lines and the perspective seem to draw themselves; it's incredible to see how my symphony of lines creates its melody. It's an action scene. I add more short tracks to enhance the speed of the movements.

A rip-roaring moan followed by "Pappy do me right," and I quote cuts in on my concentration, and my desk starts to wobble.

Okay, I'm a woman, right? How, I mean, how the hell do all these girls Scott brings to his place scream and moan like that?

Some people watch too much porn, or maybe they simulate it to make Scott feel like an Alpha. Whatever the reason, I wish his wailers would keep it down.

For safety reasons, I put my Cintiq on the floor. I don't have 2K dollars sleeping under the mattress if it breaks.

I climb into my bed, which wobbles like a massage chair with vibrations coming from the wall. Yes, my bedroom had to share a wall with Scot's. I can hear everything. To be honest, I might as well sit and watch them; the result would be the same.

"Take me from behind, daddy."

Earplugs, where are they?

No, you can do better than that, Hava. Think with your head. I take my pillow and head to Lee Lou's room. She won't come back tonight and won't go psycho because I slept in her room.

I can't close an eyelid with all her wigs on polystyrene heads facing in her bed's direction. Lee Lou is a make-up artist and blogger; her room looks like a studio. I bury myself under the covers.

Get some sleep, Hava. Perhaps tomorrow is the day you'll shine like a star.

Martin Solveig ft.ALMA-All stars

So what do you think of our main?

Hava is a character who just happened, and I'm letting her do her thing in this story.

The chapters will swing from Hava to Julian's POV. 

Thank you for reading.

XOXO