Golden Hour
Weslin wasn't one to complain so her head began filling up with animosity for her neighbors. They were teenage residents who thought highly of themselves because they were second-year students at NYU. Their place was one of the loudest. She felt like an old woman at night, going to sleep at nine in order to beat the ruckus. She pouted at the glares of the bright lights of whatever they were playing with. It wasn't firecrackers or strobe lights. It couldn't have been a flash light. It taunted her, glittering through her windows like thunder.
She thought about moving. She thought about sacrificing her investment into her six-hundred square foot apartment and moving. There was a quiet area in Queens. It was definitely too serene. She didn't like the idea of living in the suburbs. Perhaps somewhere far enough from the subway poisoned by amazed students but close enough to the 6 line so her favorite bar wasn't too much of a hike. She had friends who came from the G line where a combination of anti-social working artists lived. It seemed fitting to her brittle want for community.
The lights went out at two or three-thirty and she'd hit her alarm three times in the morning. It never got old—the buzzing. She’d slam her arm on “snooze” until she absolutely had to get up. Every second counted.
She slept a bit more on the train but was so afraid of missing her stop it only exhausted her. The only thing she found herself appreciating was the limbo between sunset and the end of every university night class. She debated napping each afternoon but preferred watching lineups and old movies instead. And then the music came back on and a young girl's shriek triggered a pure hatred. Her irritation for ignorant college kids, particularly the boys, renewed. They reminded her of the grown men who licked their lips while maintaining their balance on the train. They they’d get off the subway and never worry about seeing or caring for her again. The boys outside tickling the naïve college girls were imminent becomings of those men.
She found herself not enjoying anything. She couldn’t stand her apartment, her work, and the city. She couldn't bring herself to have fun even on Thursdays when drinks were half priced and the soup shop served lobster. All the movies she watched on Hulu and all the little snacks she indulged in equated to her regret for not just taking advantage of taking a nap.
She worked at a marketing firm downtown where she had to wear tight suits and high heels buffed with polish and baby oil. Her supervisor preferred it. The whole company had a "preference" for beyond the better standard. She had a feeling her supervisor, a Russian refuge-turned-citizen, was a homosexual or else Weslin herself was just cocky. The constant invites to Five Guys were becoming pushy. And then there was the night she ran into her at Prospect Park for a non-profit concert of some American-Swiss band. They danced until she and Sharon kicked all the chairs out of the way and then she and the woman in charge of her had their bodies pressed shoulder-to-shoulder and Weslin's mind danced about peeling away without seeming rude. Sharon was beginning to take Weslin's rejections personally. Weslin merely enjoyed the mystery of having a work-strict boss who didn't share anything with her or invite her anywhere outside of the office. She was starting to realize that rejecting her boss was doing more damage than taking them and risking all the bad things that come about business and pleasure.
Perhaps it was a culture thing. Her supervisor seemed naturally comfortable, talking with her arms and using her body to embellish. It was a characteristic that both made Weslin uneasy and admiring to her boss. Sharon was truly an effortful individual and Weslin was too conscious about nuances of conversation.
