After a tragedy, Amila Johnson abandons her life in New York and retreats back to her birthplace of Houston. She tries to start anew but she can't get far with the skills of being an almost classically trained ballerina.
Deciding to take up her fri...
Amila knew foot pain. She spent hours in an adagio floored room perfecting the fourth position until she performed magic creating the illusion of floating. Her turnout was smooth like water and the grace with which she executed all seven positions made all believe that a human could bring poetry to life. It made the radiated foot pain bearable but the pain that she now felt standing behind the counter of the coffee shop on the corner of Maven and Redbrook was agonizing. It burned her arches creating a blaze that shot up her calves and somehow made her twist her head from side to side. Eight seventy-five an hour shouldn't inflict the human body with such great pain when it wasn't going to grant her life with a great benefit; the paycheck didn't cover all her expenses. But at least she had food.
She rolled her shoulders once more and stretched her hands over her head taking in the robust, nutty chocolate redolence that swirled in The Drip. She let out an easy breath feeling the warmth of someone claiming the space next to her in the shop that always had customers from opening to closing but thankfully had a lull around nine in the evening.
"It's the shoes." Deja proclaimed without taking a glance at her footwear. She didn't have to sneak a peek since she was there when Amila laced up the sneakers when eleven turned to noon and she rolled out of bed. "Those are skater shoes and bitch...you ain't skating."
Amila tried her best to suppress her chuckle. Unfortunately, her plump glossed lips curved slightly as she faced her friend. "You're not funny."
"I disagree and..." Deja pointed to her face as her chrome painted manicure caught the fading rays of sunlight that poured through the windows that did double duty as walls. "So does your face speaking of which I'm going to need you this weekend?"
"Thanks for the notice but you know where I'll be." Amila smiled as she rested her hands on her small waist but it didn't bring a shine to her onyx eyes. Where she was going to be for the weekend was the same place she was for the last fifty other weekends; Deja's apartment. She was thankful her friend gave her a place to stay but not as ecstatic about her funds to remain so grounded.
Ballet used to prevent her from traveling and now since she gave it up another factor stood in her way; money.
"It's just good business," Deja added with a snap of her fingers. "And I'm a businesswoman...well..." She stopped to think, her whiskey eyes gleaming in the glow of the setting sun as she thought on all the irons she had in the fire. "It's a side hustle right now but I'm about to take off. I've got another five hundred followers since lunch."
She quickly pulled her phone from her pocket and swiped over the screen, producing her Instagram page like it was a magic act.
"Cool." Amila quipped, darting her glance at the screen to only view the astounding number of people that adored her friend's skills with concealer, mascara, liner, and lashes but not letting her eyes peek at her face.
She had no reservations about who saw her face 'beat to da gods' as one follower commented a couple of months ago but she couldn't bear seeing the image. Her face didn't just belong to her. The pain that consumed her soul and ravaged her heart was reborn every time to set her eyes on her reflection. It was a constant reminder of who she had, who she lost, and who she was never going to have in her life again. It was moments like these that made her jealous of single-born people; they were born alone but she wasn't. Now, trying to live her life as if she was one of them was a struggle. She was one half of a pair; an identical pair and each day she woke up she felt as if she was missing something.
Amila quickly turned her back to the door to read the menu and hoped it didn't happen; that the tears that routinely came to her every time she remembered her sister and thus the accident. She took in a rapid breath clenching her eyes tightly together.
"I'm sorry." Deja abruptly apologized, hugging her. "I'm so sorry I...spaced. Are you good? Of course, you're not. That's stupid." She hugged her tighter as she rambled.
Amila patted her shoulder to halt her friend's apology and the vice-like grip of her arms. "I'm good." She croaked out and her friend's embrace slacked. "See." She turned to her. "No tears."
She was getting better. Truly she was but there was still an ache in her soul that would release her like the pain of a knee when rain was in the forecast. Time heals all wounds; that's what they said but it's been a year and Amila wasn't quite satisfied with the healing of time. She wanted to find other methods to subdue the sting of grief and longing.
Deja let out a sigh of relief as she still eyed her features studiously to be certain but Amila had become more talented at hiding the pain behind a soft smile.
"I'm fine," Amila reassured, nudging her away with an elbow. "And tell me what new look you're trying out on me this weekend."
The concerned aura that wafted from Deja dimmed and "How do you feel about animal-print eyeshadow?"
"I—" She started, trying to understand how cheetah and zebra prints could be drawn on the small space of skin between her eyebrow and eyelashes but her brainstorming was rapidly ended from the snapping of Deja's fingers and the twisting of her hips as she asked 'you know what it is?'.
"It's not twerk o'clock and Keaton let you do the playlist again." Amila laughed as she tried to stop the rhythmic gyrations of her friends as an electrifying, energetic song flowed from the speakers that had an old school beat with updated meaning. "What about professionalism?"
"People would pay to have me throw it back on them." Deja slid in front of her as she continued dancing, grinding upon her trying to get her to join in on the fun. "You get it for free and ain't nobody here, anyway."
"I am." The deep, robust declaration that hit their backs made both of the young women jump as they turned around.
"Shit!" Deja said, shocked at the sight of the person that she hadn't notice enter. She took a couple of steps away from the counter.
However, Amila was stunned for an entirely different reason. She blinked just to make sure she wasn't having a caffeine-induced hallucination and when he didn't disappear she finally spoke.
"Dom...inic?" Her head tilted with bewilderment as she took in a staggered breath. "You're in Houston."
"I am." He smirked at her then placed his sight on the menu and asked, "What's good here?"
Does time heal all wounds?
Will Amila be able to look at her image or reflection again?
What do you think Dominic is referring to with his question?
Why do you think Keaton lets Deja create the playlist?
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