𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚅𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊

𝙵𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚃𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

* Part I *

♥︎/ with Angst
1979
Encino
Word Count: 5.1k

It was a cool Sunday afternoon, the kind where the crisp spring air trickled in through your bedroom window, dancing lazily across your bare skin. You lay sprawled out on your stomach, the soft cotton sheets tangled around your legs as you absentmindedly flipped through the latest issue of Glamour magazine that had come in the mail earlier that week. Your fingers lazily turned the pages, your thoughts elsewhere as you chewed on a piece of cherry-flavored bubble gum, the sweet, artificial taste filling your mouth. Your feet kicked idly in the air, toes curling every now and then as the rhythm of the ceiling fan above you created a gentle hum that mixed with the cool breeze it pushed down onto your body.

Outside, the spring heat of Encino was starting to creep in, but the coolness of the fan kept it at bay for now. It was one of those days where time seemed to stretch on endlessly, just another boring Sunday like so many before it. Wake up, eat breakfast, say your morning prayer—though you were never one for strict religion—and then go about your day in the same old routine.

Religion had been a part of your life for as long as you could remember, but not by choice. It was forced on you from every angle—your Southern Baptist family, their devotion like a weight you couldn't shake. And then there was Michael's family, his mother more than anyone, trying to coax you into becoming a Jehovah's Witness. Their beliefs were too restrictive, too rigid for you to ever fully embrace. No blood transfusions, no smoking, no drinking, no sex outside of marriage, no celebrating holidays or birthdays, no voting. The list of "no's" was never-ending. It was just too much. Yet, for the sake of Michael, you played along, at least on the surface.

The one rule that seemed to matter the most was the one about sex. For Michael, it was an absolute no. His fear of offending his mother, of offending God, of facing eternal damnation in hell, kept him from even entertaining the thought. You respected him for that, respected his boundaries, though it wasn't always easy. Especially given his line of work in the music industry, surrounded by temptation at every turn. The parties, the drugs, the women—it was all there, right in front of him. And when he traveled to New York, Studio 54 was always a concern for you. The stories of that place, the drugs, the chaos—it made you paranoid, more so than Michael ever seemed to be.

As you flipped through the magazine, each page felt more like a blur, the images of models and makeup tips blending into a haze of color that barely registered. Your thoughts had drifted miles away, leaving the glossy pages behind, and with a heavy sigh, you let the magazine slip from your hand. It sailed across the room, landing with a soft thud near the foot of your bed, like a symbol of your restless boredom. Another uneventful Sunday, another moment of quiet frustration that filled the stillness of your room.

Suddenly, the sharp sound of the doorbell pierced the silence, pulling you back to the present. You sat up quickly, your heart giving a little leap of surprise. Instinctively, you hopped out of bed, your feet sinking into the plush carpet as you padded over to the window. Gently parting the blinds, you peeked outside to see who it was. Standing there, looking slightly nervous but holding a bouquet of red roses, was Michael. His figure, tall and familiar, dressed in his neatly pressed church clothes, made you smile instantly.