𝙫𝙚𝙞𝙡 | 𝘞. 𝘈𝘹𝘭 𝘙𝘰𝘴𝘦

Ⅴ

𝟎𝟓.𝟎𝟔.𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟓

A Wednesday afternoon, sweltering and scented with fire, under a parched sky. It was a season so oppressive that even a trip to the beach was prevented by the toxic red tide—a time when the city dropped to its knees like ancient Sodom, praying for redemption.

Sofiya and Linda swam in the hot aquamarine of the pool, in the clatter of palms and the matte scarlet sky. Sofiya floated on her back, humming to herself.

-This bourgeois city.-She gently flowed her fingers, letting her body drift in a slow circle.-An eccentric bit of superficiality frenzy.-She hated the country, couldn't wait to get out. In Petersburg it was free Thursday afternoons at the Gorokhovaya street museums, Sunday concerts, and poetry readings—her friends engaged in acting, painting, or casting their private parts in plaster of paris. However, the present seemed devoid of purpose. Linda hadn't set foot in a museum since her time in Petersburg.

The next day, Linda stayed in her room, of which walls were now full of cutouts of the Vogue magazines presenting statuesque models in avant-garde hairstyles. It featured fragments of interviews and snapshots capturing Vivienne Westwood and Galliano's latest collections, like a 1970s punk zine. She tried on a denim set she had bought earlier at FIGat7th. Her pale European skin formed an amusing contrast against the backdrop of the city, where everyone was sun-kissed all year long. She lifted her hair, as if clipped with a bobby pin and turned her head in a way that showed her neck and sharp jawline.

-Oh fiddle-dee-dee. Don't you men ever think about anything important?-she messed around imitating Scarlett O'Hara southern accent.

She has always carried herself through the dead silence and the frigid world, but longed to embody Scarlett's indomitable spirit, to possess the resilience that weathered the storms of the antebellum South. Beauty was deceptive. She would rather wear her steadfastness and loftiness, like Scarlett's allure which was not just in her striking beauty, but in the plucky determination that coursed through her veins.

Her mother sat cross-legged downstairs on the couch, wearing a satin kimono. She was writing in a notebook with an ink pen she dipped in a bottle.

-What kind of brothel-esque outfit is this?-she asked as she rose her head.-Did you steal it from a Sunset prostitute?

-What's wrong with the outfit?

-It's shockingly bad. Is it some kind of occasion or?

-Duff invited me for a concert.-Linda said as she was putting on leather boots.

Her mother laughed.

-For a concert or a carousal?

As she adjusted the straps on her boots, Linda's thoughts meandered to her mother's highbrow preferences and disdain for what she considered "shallow, crude forms of fun." It was a sentiment that Linda had grown up with, hearing lectures about the importance of refinement, strict philosophy and the dangers of indulging in activities that lacked sophistication, beauty.