Fiction, Short story
3 min
Window Shopping
Sophia Castillo
She instinctively swiped her thumb against the side of her phone. It was already in her pocket when the light flickered to black and the upbeat music no longer posed a demanding suitor for her attention.
Nonetheless, the images alighting the screen moments before occupied her thoughts.
Silky hair gloriously cascading over an electric blue sweater, which somehow simultaneously evoked both the timeless beauty of Renaissance drapery and the casual comfort of the modern era. Marble smooth skin, effortlessly tanned from an eventful life. Movements that attracted consideration but didn't deign to beg for it.
She crossed the room, unwittingly adhering to the slight indentations of a well-worn path in the carpet. Her window was kept shut to keep out the edge-of-winter chill. Staring into the darkness, she absentmindedly dragged a finger across the sweaty condensation on the glass, drawing a tiny star. Exactly how her older cousin taught her at a sleepover all those years ago.
She wiped her finger on her sweats. She subconsciously avoided the vinyl letters emblazoned on her left leg, which rather obnoxiously boasted the name of her high school. They've been definitively resigned to the role of nighttime attire once blemished by an artifact of a late-night escapade—one involving a cup of hot cocoa, an overly enthusiastic helping of whipped cream, and an uncontrollable chorus of laughter.
The captivating stillness of the night was complemented by the serene chirp of a barn owl. Assuming her fourth-grade best friend wasn't mistaken.
She flopped onto her bed. A hand-knit blanket scratched against her shoulder blades, filling her with the nostalgic resentment that comes with a stubborn attachment to anything gifted. The barely perceptible scent of acrylic yarn pulled her closer to a contented sleep.
She was surrounded by things that would never be recognized by anyone but those who knew her. They were not destined to flicker across countless screens.
But they were irrefutably hers.
...
With the satisfying weighty click that occurs only with items of precise manufacture, she closed the laptop.
Crossing her arms, she leaned back in the exquisitely carved mahogany chair. An indigo cashmere sweater caressed her shrugged shoulders with the gentlest touch—perfectly distilled refinement.
It did nothing to quiet the dissatisfaction that crowded her thoughts. Which were now accompanied by that infernal tune. She had yet to find a song invulnerable to the debasement inherent to the editing process. She doubted such a rarity existed.
A phone in a sleek black case buzzed on the spotless desk. Her heart leapt, then unceremoniously tumbled straight back down when the notification merely announced increased engagement on her latest post. Mechanically, she scrolled further only to find appointment reminders. Business communications. Overdue learning lessons. The usual conglomeration of faceless pleasantries and unpleasantries. Not the text she was hoping for—waiting for.
She automatically reached for the glass to her right, raising it to her uniformly-colored lips. Its contents of elusive pronunciation bubbled over her tongue, but the joy it brought rapidly subsided with every sip.
Restless, she rose and crossed the room, pedicured feet cushioned by the pristine rug that lay underfoot.
The autumn breeze swept through the open double casement windows, carrying with it the aroma of stone and tobacco that so often resides in cities whose legacy precedes them.
Looking out at the glittering lights scattered as far as the eye could see, she placed her forearms on the cool metal of the windowsill, tormented by that which persistently eluded her.
She had access to anything and everything that could be wanted.
Save the privilege of being known.
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