I've been here for hours, watching the young people outside of my window and tapping Mia's pen against the paper. As I stand, the sun fades and the street lights flicker on. They coat everything in this amber hue. If the kids playing Frisbee notice the shift in light, they do not acknowledge it. I say kids, I am almost entirely certain they are in their mid-twenties. But it's difficult to tell these days.
I tap the pen to the beat of a heart, who's I cannot say. All I know is that it is definitely not mine, it stopped years ago in favour of lying dormant. I don't particularly blame it. Sometimes I wish I could follow is example. Living is tiring.
It's hard to say how long I stand, leaning against the windowsill and tapping, but it must be a substantial amount of time. It feels like moments ago that Mia left me here, to write my piece, and yet the door is already squeaking her arrival. I swivel to watch her unpack a bag onto the counter, trying not to mind that she seems to have purchased so many apples. There is such a thing as too many Granny Smith's. I wonder if she knows that.
"Finished yet?" She bundles the bag into a draw, slamming it shut. Years I have lived with her, and to this day I cannot fathom her system in the kitchen. "When you're done I have a fun thing for you to do."
"Fun?" I arch an eyebrow. Those are the exact words she described this task as.
"Yep." She smiles, drumming against the counter. I wonder that somebody so young can be so happy all of the time. Perhaps it is her heart I was tapping to. "Funner than fun actually, you will laugh so hard."
"What is the task?" I remove all inflection from the question, hoping she will note my lack of enthusiasm. She does not.
"You can't ask why, but after you're done you have to come outside with me and throw a Frisbee at somebody." She shrinks under my gaze. "Ok, fine, you can ask why. I need you to first steal a Frisbee from these guys outside and then throw it at them. I'm not, like, a revenge-y person normally but... ummm... well they nearly beheaded me."
"You're head seems fine," I say trying not to show my surprise. This is a task I might well enjoy, for once. It's not that I harbour any ill will against the boys outside but a task requiring both stealth and accuracy instead of contemplation sounds right up my street.
"I said nearly beheaded." Mia adjusts the mail pile, straightening it. "And it's only after you're done."
"I'm done now," I lie fluidly. She purses her lips, glancing at my hand and the notebook I clutch. I roll my eyes, motioning for her to lead the way. She does so reluctantly. And, as the door squeaks her departure I hastily pen the only thing I can think about the main character of Mia's zombie book before I follow Mia on a mission of semi-violent revenge. There are just three sentences:
I suppose, when it comes down to it, my main thoughts about Raye can be summed up in two questions. How does she always keep her hair so immaculate? And when will she return the book I loaned her?