peculiarity

I sat with my back to the wall, letting the familiar march of 'cheek to cheek' combat the also familiar rumble of the wall as my parents screamed at each other.

I breathed deeply, examining the back of my eyelids thoroughly as I let Frank Sinatra lull me to another world.

I sat on a barstool in a rather ritzy little bar, there was a wine glass in front of me that held what looked like a fancier version of the chardonnay my mom would get from the market.

There were people to my back dancing gracefully to frank Sinatra's smooth voice.

I stood, letting the purple fabric of the form fitting, calf length dress drift around me.

The left shoulder was simply bunched fabric that crossed lazily over my sternum and, rather than bunching over my right shoulder, fell loosely from my right shoulder to my elbow. The waist was high and the seam was hidden by a black sash that was bunched in the same manner as the left strap of my dress.

When my open-toed, black heels hit the ground I was flanked by a boy much closer to my age than most of the other people around us.

He closely resembled a boy that I'd had classes with for years now, Peter Denis.

He had a smile on his warmly tanned face, his dark brown hair falling in front of green eyes that faded to a dark blue at the edge of his iris.

No, this was Peter.

He held his elbow out and I gingerly took it, linking us together as he steered me towards the dance floor.

Once among the rest of the crowd the band faded and struck up another well known tune as Sinatra's voice rose once again, making the beautiful tones of 'strangers in the night' echo softly between the couples.

Peter took my waist and I wrapped my arms around his neck, slowly coming to rest my head against his shoulder.

During the song 'my one and only love' he stopped and as I pulled back to look at him and he leant down, staring deeply into my eyes with his own hooded eyes.

The daydream ended there, with the bittersweet thought of a kiss that was never to be as my mom threw open my bedroom door, looking over at me with the dull, glacier blue eyes I'd inherited.

"You done with your homework for the night?" she slurred lightly, and I could tell she'd had more than a little wine, most likely the reason for my parents' fighting.

I simply nodded, giving her an open, easily readable look.

"And your chores?" her mouth was beginning to turn down at the corners, she seemed to be looking for a reason to be mad at me, other than simply existing.

I nodded again.

"You make dinner yet?" she looked triumphant, like she'd won a great intelligence war.

It was only five, and she usually made dinner on Tuesdays.

I shook my head.

"Sorry, I'll start it now."

Her triumphant smile turned to a sneer.

"Well then get going Abigail, I'm not cooking for you, you're 17 damnit!"

I nodded and carefully stowed away my old diskman on the shelf next to my bed, passing my mother and being careful not to tred on her feet or bump into her or anything else that might be in the way.

She knocked into me anyways.

"You useless, clumsy child," she grimaced at me and I knew what would come next.

As the first hit collided I wished I were back in my dream world, in the fifties, dancing to jazz music with Peter Denis.

But I'd never get that freedom.