ʷᵃᵛᵉˢ ᵒᶠ ᶜᵒˡᵒʳ / ᵇⁱˡˡⁱᵉ ᵉⁱˡⁱˢʰ

chapter three

 I opened my eyes to a faint glow of sunlight filtering in through the gauzy curtains of the bedroom. I was lying in bed, still in my clothes from yesterday, with the wrinkled duvet tangled around my legs. 

I sat up slowly, rubbing my temple. My suitcase remained propped up in the corner of the room, untouched since my arrival. The tote bag I'd brought along with me, however, had been completely emptied of its contents. Sketchbooks, gum wrappers, lip balms and ballpoint pens were littered around the floor. I didn't recall using any of those things last night. Then again, apart from the awkward dinner, I didn't recall much of anything from last night.

I swung my feet over the side of the bed and stood. There was a full body mirror on the wall across from me, and without meaning to, I found myself staring at my reflection. My hair was tousled, my clothing was wrinkled, and my under eye circles appeared darker than usual.

I did my morning routine, which didn't consist of much beside brushing my teeth and washing my face, then crouched down in front of my suitcase and began to unpack it.

My mother had instructed a maid to do all my packing. She told me that she didn't trust me enough to bring the right "supplies for this trip." Besides a few meager items, I had failed to smuggle anything of much value into the case.

As I pulled out the many button down blouses, gingham skirts and silk slip dresses that the maid had been instructed to pack, I realized that my wardrobe was very much similar to all the forty year old housewives who used to sit with my mother on our patio, guzzling martinis and chatting about gossip within the country club. 

I put on the least haughty outfit I could find—black shorts and a plain white top with spaghetti straps. By that point, after all my unpacking, it was nearly ten. I had always been an early riser, which was difficult, because I was also a night owl. My mother liked to say I was "burning the candle on both ends" when her friends questioned my often distraught appearance, which was caused by lack of sleep. I thought that phrase was stupid, but nonetheless would smile politely when the women around me began suggesting sleeping pills and "home remedies" to cure what they deemed to be insomnia.

It could be insomnia, perhaps, but my theory was always that I was just too busy to sleep. Busy with what, you may ask? I am not sure. All I know is that when night falls, I feel that I still have much to accomplish and that sleep is just a waste of time.

I was beginning to set up my paints on the foldable easel I'd brought, when I heard a knock on the door. 

I had completely forgotten that there were other people in the house with me. I'd been so submersed in my activities, organizing the room and whatnot.

I opened the door, expecting to see Maggie standing there, but was unpleasantly surprised to see Billie instead.

It wasn't that I hated her—I just found her somewhat off-putting. Her accusation about me not eating last night, however true it may have been, had irritated me for a reason I wasn't quite sure of. Maybe it was the fact that she, unlike anyone else in my life, had actually noticed something about me. I was uncomfortable with that. I felt like she was violating my privacy in some way.

"Hi," Billie said to me. She was leaned up against the doorframe. Her voice sounded scratchy, as if she'd just woken up.

"Hi." My reply was noticeably icy. Her left brow raised slightly.

"There's breakfast downstairs," she said. "My mom just wanted you to know."

"Oh. Alright." 

What did I say next? "Thank you?" That might sound weird. "I'll be right down?" Why would she care? "I'm starving?" No. Just no.