Indie

Her skirt rode up her thighs when she sat; she'd never worn this short before and she remained alarmingly aware of it. Sex is so boring, she thought. Or at least the mere mention of it, without the expectation of follow-through. And DISTRACTING at that, even from the possibility of actual attraction--so impossible is it to meet another person's eyes, dressed in this presumably obvious way. Just let go of the vanity, she urged herself silently, trying to focus on the jasmine breeze instead.

Just as her mind wandered to the potential of vining plants--the lovely fragrance of bougenvillia or the proud shape-color of ivy--her at last almost selfless musings were interrupted rather pleasantly: "Hey there, sweetheart." Sure, a rebellious irritation/offense struck her before anything else, but then she looked up to match the familiar face with the even more familiar voice--although entirely out of place as both or them were--and saw the only man with implicit permission to address her such.

"Dad?! Where'd you come from? What are you doing up here?"
"I took a drive. Check it out..."

He indicated at a place down the street, and she leaned over the coffeehouse railing to encounter the view: a Streamliner travel trailer--the thing he'd dreamed about simce at least as far back as she had breath in her. She 'whoooaa'-ed her delighted appreciation at the sight of his now-tangible wish, while wondering tangentially whether tea could be brewed from any sweet-smelling flower?

Carrie

There were things she didn't understand. Occasionally she labored under the impression that this was not so, but for the most part it went unsaid in her mind and known nonetheless.

Her most recent lapse from the loop of the universe came to her through the guise of her lover. Before that it took on the countenance of a stranger, once removed. And before that there were others, as there are always others.

"Why should I pretend I'm not arrogant? The very fact of it makes a denial damn near impossible. And whatever happened to finding arrogance appealing? I'm not the one changing here. Hey, don't even give me that look. This 'changing is a good thing' stance of yours is brand-fucking new and way too convenient to be taken seriously."

Her reflection looked contrite. But as this pleased her, in the next moment it began to look smug so that she felt ridiculous but pissed off anyway. She left the mirror alone with its victory.

Restless, Carrie asked her co-worker, "Do you consider yourself influenced by the weather?" as she returned from the restroom to the cubicle that they shared.

"Sure, my umbrella's right over there," she gestured wildly at the door before waving Carrie over to her with an impatient jerk-motion of her arm. She evidently didn't notice the younger woman's dissatisfied expression as she pressed on once again about the importance of consistent returns in their line of work, not bothering to explain what they were even doing here, so irrelevant as this small detail had turned out to be. In this room, Carrie found convincing herself that she was still alive to be hardest. Unfortunately, she also spent most of her time here.

Janey

"Not fair, not fair, not fair!" She'd raged against the sofa pillows for fifteen minutes, slamming her tightly closed fists into them until they flew up and dance-popped around like nervous kettle corn. Her voice was nearing ragged by now, but she failed to notice this, at least to the freezing point of cessation. She repeated her mantra (redundant?) in hush and harsh tones, not yelling so much as whispering with a solid force, and her tone was matter-of-fact rather than wounded complaint. So the injustice her words meant to express never got past her lips, and thus stayed within to stagnate and convince her rebellions to press on, avoiding relief at all costs.

But as suddenly as the tantrum had begun, the length of it came to an abrupt end. Janey sat heavily on the much-abused armchair and breathed the stale air in mouthfuls loud and slow. Head held high and with back bent not at all, she peered straight ahead, so that her glance hit incidentally beyond her gray apartment window. It lay upon the bougainvillea in fuchsia bloom, and (just like that,) she needed to be outside.

She remembered the wanting, and immediately after only the being there. Her eyes shuffled around then, locking on image after image, as though they were merely pictures of things that happen, (and not the things themselves/a thing in itself). She came to, (as) it seemed, standing on the steps of the building she lived in but seldom felt like hers, except between the pages of sleep and its absence.

Her whole self, as a sum of so many parts, suddenly felt simultaneously alive, and she drew in the blazing jasmine air through her pores, senses, lungs, as surely as the lowering sun set carefully on (the back of her) pale shoulders. The frantic feeling of loss slamming against her chest like a locked-tight door/window/cage, now soothed down to a frail tap--and while part of her wanted to panic even at the implications of this improvement, a baser knowledge led on by the breathing of her body kept the panic subdued/at bay. She watched her self-visible body meld into the/her surroundings, almost belonging there, and (again) she began to believe in what she saw.

"He wanted to write a song," she said aloud. "That's why I came."