Writing Sample 3

The tapestry on the wall looked like it was breathing, but it was only the wind. It shuttered. It rippled. It started dancing. “How playful” Janicka thought as she watched it. She was supposed to be getting ready. She had a date with Thom, the boy from that band. She had met him the weekend before at a gig somewhere, but she wasn’t particularly excited. She lay down on her bed in her towel, her damp hair saturating her sheets with water. Since her roommates were out she had turned off the A.C. As she lounged around she thought about her current state. “I am here in my bed and the window is slightly open and I am listening to the drain outside of the window and I am listening to the rain outside of the window and I have taken charge of the apartment and turned off the air conditioning once and for all! All is pure and natural. Our air is clear and clean and wet.” She liked explaining situations to herself. It made her more aware and it made her more awake and active in her own life.

She stopped thinking to herself and she got up and went into the bathroom. As she sat down she stared up into the face of an O’Neill model. “Awkward” she thought. Try as she did, she could not seem to go to the bathroom. Not with that poster staring at her. “I am going to have to talk to Natalie about this” she thought to herself as she wrapped her towel back around her body and walked back to her bedroom. Why on earth her roommate had plastered giant pictures of swimsuit models on the wall of their bathroom was beyond her. It felt like an invasion of privacy. It was as if someone, who just so happened to be skinny and gorgeous and perfect, was staring at her screaming “Did you really eat that?” as she tried to, well, do her business. It was just awkward.

She went back into her room, opened her closet door, grabbed a dress and pulled it on over her head. She stared at herself in the mirror, twirling a few times as she watched herself, and was satisfied. She stretched, cracked her back by turning to the side, and breathed deeply. The pop was pleasant. She grabbed her purse and ran down the stairs and out the door. Thom was waiting for her in his run-down Camaro looking just as grim and distant as he had while playing his guitar on stage the weekend before. “Musicians,” she though. “They’re all the same.” She clutched the black handle and opened the door, not resisting as he pulled her into his life.