All actions have consequences. Giving in to the devil on your shoulder that forces your hand to hit the snooze button just one more time, burrowing your scantily clad body deeper into the safety of your fleece blanket feels like a luxury when you’re steadily faced with the alternative: the outside world. Can you hear that clock [i tick-tock]ing your life away? You move and breathe on borrowed time - every action after your moment of indulgence [i costs you]; in appearance, in comfort, effort, and reward.
The very notion of an 8AM, general education course is a direct affront to what our ancestors would call, “a good time.” Punishment enough, no?
[i [b Morgan]]
[i where are you, now?]
[i [right lost]]
[i [b Morgan]]
[i you should have gotten up with my good morning phone call, smh]
No, this is her punishment.
The dreaded [i click-clack] of the screen as it fell prone on the pavement, bounced to its side, and landed face up. The echo stops time, and then comes the deep, [i visceral], errant sigh. You’re not supposed to let people know you’re irritated - social faux pas number one; least of all, a [i Hollowood] - social faux pas number two. Ophelia’s eyes are scanning the ground, not out of shame or regret - she’s searching for where her phone fell.
There’s little time for niceties, that much is clear, in those mellowed brown eyes. From where she’s standing, she can see that the screen is slightly cracked. A curt, “Move,” should suffice enough to get the point across. [i I don’t have time for you]. Her voice is muted, pursed lips nestled safely beneath the warmth of an ash grey scarf. So it isn’t a surprise when one of the tall young men blocks her path, asking her to repeat herself.
“Fucking nuisance,” she pulls her scarf down under her chin, and thinks maybe now, he might take the tampons out of his ears and listen a little closer this time, “I said, move.”
“Not sure who the fuck you think you are,” He tucks a finger under the braid of auburn hair hanging over her shoulder and flicks it [i up] into her face. In a more secluded space, with less witnesses, that should have [i ended him]. “In normal human society, the one who bumps into someone usually says, ‘excuse me.’” He’s at least half a foot taller, but Ophelia has no issues meeting his gaze, nor the rest of the stray group of Greek gods, chiseled from stone and given life through lightning - inhaling undue validation, exhaling hubris - more still, while they wait for her apology; a fumbling string of ‘uhm, ah, sorry’ that will never come.
“Looks like we got a bad bitch.” A voice says from behind her opposition.
The urge to mouth off is incredibly tempting, and it hits her like a hot flash, merging indignation with a misplaced sense of superiority. But the winds shift when her electronic companion, thought silenced by its fall, begins to buzz incessantly against the ground. Ophelia makes a swift exit, dipping underneath Avery’s extended arm, and taking the phone beneath her fingers in one smooth motion. Now fielding the bitter army of stares on her back, she can see her savior waiting in the distance, clutching her phone as though they are pearls around her neck.
Morgan grips Ophelia by the sleeve as though she’s just committed a crime against nature itself - the thin fabric of her jacket stresses, keeping the shape of the pinch long after her friend had let go. Her pace is so swift that it has Ophelia lamenting that she chose boots over sneakers. Morgan clops on, unbothered, in stylish beige heels, as if she’s late for a business proposal in a shitty downtown office building.
“Where are we going?”
“The [i long way] to class.”
Ophelia doesn’t argue. She focuses on the inhuman lustre of Morgan’s perfectly coiffed, blonde hair. It moves with every step she makes, and yet, never does a hair fall out of place. You’d have been pressed to believe she had ever been in a rush, if not for the two-minute touchup to her face in the waning minute or so before class was due to begin. “I’ll never understand your aversion to being nice.”
“Good thing they’re literally a handful people in a school of one thousand. Who cares?” Ophelia’s eyes roll so hard - one day, she might permanently injure herself. “Look at how they massacred my boy.” She holds up her phone to the light - an eyesore to forever remember them by. “Will my [i Pepito] ever be the same again?”
Morgan shakes her head, snapping her compact closed, “Girl, you are a nightmare.”
[font “Times” A social nightmare in human skin.]