Dancing through the kitchen, a shorthaired blond teenager absentmindedly waves around a spatula while randomly spraying the stove in between spins until it’s dripping with antiseptic. She’s thinking of the next story she’ll write and of the unfinished drawing upstairs of her and her best friends. Her mutt of a dog watches her lazily. Upstairs her sister is cleaning her maze of a room for the umpteenth time, her hair wrapped in a towel and her nails still wet. Her mom’s hogging the phone with an unlit cigarette between her fingers, while her dad’s snoring on the couch, book still clutched in his hand. Her brother, Charlie, calling from Holland through Skype, is left unnoticed by muted computer speakers. The madrilène buildings loom high in the distance, and it reminds her of a school she knows she left behind. With a sigh, she wakes from the memory and eyes the load of unfinished homework beside her laptop; she knows she’s not in high school anymore. She can hear her floormates moving through the building around her, giggling with each other about the drunken serenade a classmate gave their neighbor last night, discussing the role of sexuality in Ancient Athens, or complaining about their crappy hotplate. Outside the window, she hears a neighbor yell if anyone has a screwdriver he can use, and sees a couple making out on the grass. She looks past them and watches the sun set on her new home. Soon she’ll fold up in a memory and blankets and dream a night. The morning brings new things.

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