Who: Jude What: A narrative: Moving in Where: P2 When: This morning Warnings: None
The silver key, with the BL etched on the surface, slipped into the lock like silk. Jude thought it was a good sign, and she pushed the door open to her new home.
Everything had been delivered and set-up as she'd asked, and she looked approvingly at the white-on-white apartment as she closed the door behind her with a click.
The living room contained a few unopened boxes of memories, and she pulled the flaps on one. They gave, and she pulled out the first item on the top - a set of Christmas lights from last year. She climbed onto the three-paned windowsill fearlessly, and she hung them from the curtains, before jumping down with a loud sound.
She wasn't a waif, though she wasn't heavy either. She was exquisitely normal, if you thought such a thing existed. Long brown hair flowed past her shoulders, the ends a little dried from constant exposure to the ocean air. She was a little taller than most women, at 5'6, and no one would call her dainty; it had nothing to do with her height or weight, however, and everything to do with the way she carried herself. In her jeans and simple cable-knit sweater, she looked sure and confident, and she carried that confidence like a yoke.
She stepped back and examined her work, and she wondered what Charles would think...
Charles.
She hadn't seen him in a week. Whenever she got near him, she panicked in a way that she couldn't explain. Couldn't explain, because Jude never panicked. But, she told herself logically, how could she not panic a little? Any woman would, wouldn't they?
She'd lost a week - no, almost two. She'd lost almost two weeks worth of life, of memories. And during those two weeks, she'd lost Charles. He had found someone new, again, no. He'd re-found someone old - her best friend - and Jude hadn't managed to force herself to question him about it. Whenever she approached him, she panicked, hyperventilated, and the world went black around the edges.
She didn't understand it.
But that wasn't all of it. In the last week, she'd forgotten him. It was a brief thing, five minutes at the most, but she'd forgotten.
She went back to the box, and she pulled out a writing pad and a pen, and she scribbled: C: Teacher, Dark hair, Superstitious, Geek. The words, written in bold, sure script, made her feel better. She walked to the kitchen, where a forgotten magnet for pizza delivery adorned the refrigerator, and she tucked the note beneath it.
Satisfied, she wandered into the bedroom, and she walked to the windows there. She could hear distant music from another apartment, and she leaned against the adjacent wall thoughtfully and wondered which box held her violin.
The phone rang, and it dragged her from her thoughts. She retrieved it, put the receiver to her ear, and she focused completely on the caller, who wanted to book a tour. She kicked off her boots, and she conducted her business. She got the caller to raise the price twice, and she smiled as she put the receiver back on the hook.
With one last listen to the music, she left the room. Time to make this house a home.