There are over 70 thousand apartment buildings and over a million residential apartments crammed into New York City's 300-square miles. One may say it was the low, yet still ridiculously high, rent at The Mare's Nest that drew her in. Or the fact it...
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One. Two. Three. Four.
She counts the ticks of the ceiling fan above her bed. It feels like it's been years since she last had a good night's sleep. While girls spent time picking out the perfect bracelet or purse, heavy lids and dark undereye circles were her staple accessories.
Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
The light of her cell phone singes her exhausted eyes. 12:46 AM and she's successfully built her to-do and grocery lists for tomorrow while tossing and turning.
Baking has always been a wonderful cure for her restlessness. If not a cure, than it was certainly a welcomed distraction. Not-so-silently tiptoeing to her kitchen, her pantry door creaks as she grabs brown and white sugar, vanilla extract, butter, eggs, baking soda, walnuts and salt. All the ingredients to make chocolate chip cookies, sans the chocolate chips. She'd have to forgo those tonight until she has the time to go to the market.
"If there is water leaking in, and all the cracks are wearing thin, don't believe that I will ever share my world with anyone but you," she quietly sings the words to the song "Knock Louder" by JR JR in rhythm with her mixing. Even though she now lives alone, she's mindful of the fact she has neighbors and thin walls. "And if they don't hear the door, just knock louder. And if they still don't, we'll scream at the top of our lungs."
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The smell of caramelizing sugars and vanilla envelopes her body as she daintily dances around the hardwood floor of her apartment.
"Perfect," she whispers, taking the finished tray of treats out of the oven. Once cooled, she carefully places each one in her vintage avocado-green Pyrex bowl and covers the top with a thin layer of cellophane. All but one cookie makes its way into the vessel. This one is her's, and as she bites into the chewy goodness she thinks to herself "This is what independence must taste like."
A hodgepodge of wallpaper plasters the walls on each flight of stairs. She runs her fingers across the painted floral and paisley as she makes her trip from top floor down to the bottom of the complex where Betty's apartment is located.
"Don't laugh at the spinsters, dear girls," a deep British voice rings from the other side of the door. "Little Women" had always been one of her favorite books. She recognizes the words of Louisa May Alcott almost immediately. "For often very tender, tragic romances are hidden away in the hearts that beat so quietly under the sober gowns, and many silent sacrifices of youth, health, ambition, love itself, make the faded faces beautiful in God's sight."
Betty's entrance is amusing and makes Mara smile every time she walks by. A thinly curtained window sits at the top half of the farmhouse-style door.
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Peeking through the yellow and white gingham on the window, Mara can see traces of the stranger. Brown curls spill out of a tight red beanie. Green flannel sleeves are pushed up above their elbows, revealing blotches of random black tattoos scattered up slightly tanned skin. The throaty timbre of the voice is unique and captivating, drawing Mara in like a tractor beam. In attempt to hear more of the reading, Mara moves her face closer to the window until she inadvertently hits her cheek against the window.
"FUCK!" She says, a little louder than she likes. Cookies break through the cover and scatter across the floor as the Pyrex bowl crashes down on Betty's welcome mat. She gives one last look through the curtain and sees emerald green eyes staring back at her. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," she whispers to herself, frantically picking up the homemade goodies she planned to leave Betty as a thank you gift.
Leaving the cookies in the wake of her destruction and hustling back up the stairs, she trips on the same floorboard she did earlier that day.
"Thank god," she's relieved to find the step didn't break as she expected. Two more steps up and the unthinkable happens - her heavy boot pierces through the thin board, pulling her leg down into the gaping hole. Quiet footsteps echo in Betty's home and Mara's stomach springs out of her gut as the front door swings open.
As she struggles to free her limb, a handsome, six-foot tall man steps out of the apartment. His coral lips purse, repressing a smile that Mara can tell would normally be an absolutely perfect smile. Danger, Will Robinson. Danger.
"Y'alright?" He rushes to her aid and effortlessly lifts her out of her rut.
"I'm so sorry. I was leaving Betty cookies to thank her for welcoming me into the building. Try to do something nice and I'm like a bull in a china shop. I swear. Classic Mara." She often rambles when she's nervous and this situation presents a perfect example. The two desperately try to avoid making eye contact with one another, their skin flush with embarrassment and bashfulness, while she attempts to silence herself. Her attempt fails within seconds. "Boots probably don't help either. Are you Harry?"
He sheepishly nods. She shyly nods back. Both with a timid smile plastered on their faces.
"I'm so sorry. Jesus. I can't tell you how sorry I am. Let me help fix it," Mara requests, using the hard toe of her footwear to play with the splintered wood. Harry remains silent. "Sorry..."
Once when she was little girl, she practiced baseball in the house. It was her attempt to impress her dad. Make him happy for taking interest in one his hobbies. When she swung, in perfect Billy Williams fashion, her bat went straight through the hallway wall. Her father wasn't forgiving, let alone proud. He was even angrier at her mother for allowing such a disaster to take place. Ever since that moment, Mara designated herself a catastrophe in the making with a knack for ruining nice things. That moment was inevitably the start of her over-apologetic nature.
"I got it," Harry picks a piece of plywood off her boot and keeps his head down. He was used to fixing other people's messes. Other people being remorseful of their mess ups was something he indeed was not used to.
"Then I bid you adieu, sir," Mara says in an obnoxious British accent that doesn't sound remotely British. Her chest heaves, insecure that her new super now hates her, while they continue to avoid any sort of personal contact. Swiftly stomping back up the stairs, she makes it back to her apartment and presses her back against the closed Dutch door. "I bid you adieu, sir? What the actual fuck is wrong with me?"
