Realistic or Modern 𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞;

[weldherwings]

 

[weldherwings]

chapter one.

IT'S A MATCH!

 

[weldherwings]

Mood

ughhhh why am I so damn awkward?!

Location

Frankie Smith's fifth spare house or something.

Outfit

trusty jeans and plain shirt

Tag

Iniquitous

anthony smith.

It’s a match!

The low hum and rumble from his bed, followed by a high pitch ding, distracted Anthony Smith away from his guitar momentarily. He was still getting used to all the new sounds this damn contraption was making. Thirty years of his life, and he was finally able to get his hands on his own iPhone mobile. All this time he had huddled over his Nokia 3310, gifted to him as a young teenager, playing Snake until his thumbs were numb. Now he felt like some real adult, walking around with a phone that he was too afraid was going to shatter in his hands at any moment.

It wasn’t like it was his choice to get the damn thing. His brother had been adamant that he had the latest phone to ensure he could keep in contact with the whole family. Well, it wasn’t like he could get very far from them anyway. After all this time practically running away from them, he was now living in the same house as his parents once again. Correction – he was living in one of the apparently five – or six – houses his brother currently owned. Why did Frankie Smith own so many houses? Anthony had no clue. But for whatever reason, Frankie decided to purchase this house and allowed his parents to live in it rent-free. Once he had discovered the whereabouts of his younger brother, he insisted that he should stay in the guesthouse so he could try and rekindle his relationship with his parents – just in time for their younger sister, Grace’s, wedding at the end of the year.

Now. Ant would’ve been happy with that. Just trying to get along with his parents was a gigantic chore to begin with. But now his sister was insisting that he brought a date alongside with him to her wedding. At first, he came up with a thousand reasons why that would be such a horrible idea. But in a few simple sentences, Grace summed up why it would be best for him to bring someone; to stop the ‘oldies’ from asking him any questions and to stop them from coming to a conclusion that he didn’t have his shit together in life. If getting a date meant that there was one less person in this world that didn’t think he was a hot mess (especially if it was a family member), he was in on it.

So, once he received his brand new phone, Grace gave him a swift tutorial on how to use the basics. How to make calls, send text messages, join in on the family chat on What’s App. But most importantly, she talked him through how to use an app called Tinder. Ant had heard about Tinder before. Mainly from his friends who said they had met on it. He knew it was some sort of dating app. Well, he needed to find someone to date. Why not give it a try? He gave Grace full reign on the device, allowing her to make his profile and to choose what pictures would be best for him to upload. Once she had finished swiping the phone right for almost an hour, she handed it back to him and told him good luck before swiftly making her exit.

That was five minutes ago.

Placing his guitar gently down on the bed, he slid down to lie next to it, on his tummy with his elbows to prop himself up. Carefully, he took hold of the phone, cautious that it could potentially explode at any minute (he had heard the horror stories), and looked at the screen as the notification illuminated. He had… a match?

He swiped open the phone and stared down at the profile that he had ‘matched’. Am élie. Dark brown eyes stared deep into his hazel blue orbs as he started to search through the pictures she had on her profile. Okay, so… she was cute. Maybe Grace did know his taste in women after all. A little notification at the bottom of the screen popped up, encouraging him to send a message to this girl he had just matched with. A message?! What the hell was he supposed to say? Were people on Tinder meant to be straightforward or something? Panic ran through his spine as his mind tumbled over a thousand and one different ways he could say a simple ‘hi’ to this new match of his.

Okay, he was just going to have to get it over and done with. His fingers moved at a snail-like speed as he attempted to get used to the new keyboard before him on the screen. But within two minutes, that was it – he had pressed send. He had just sent his first message. “What the fuck am I doing?” he grumbled to himself, placing the phone down and burying his head into the bedding below him.

g'day! or should I be saying bonjour instead?

© weldherwings.

 

[Iniquitous]

Mood

Now isn't that interesting?

Location

New York Penthouse.

Outfit

Lounge chic

Tag

weldherwings

amélie dassault.

Amelie lit a cigarette and stepped onto her balcony. New York City was never quiet. Even in the early hours of the morning, it resounded with living noise. Her phone was in her unoccupied hand, chiming with numerous text messages and notifications, a tinny accompaniment to the drone of New York’s late-night symphony. She inhaled, and the cigarette paper receded into ash. With an exhale she typed in her passcode, giving one last glance to the city and the undulation of smoke into a starless sky. 53 text messages, a constant influx of comments on her social media, and several unread Tinder notifications. She started with the texts. New York fashion week, clothing fittings, and reminders of her upcoming art exhibition. Her eyes fell to the nearly completed canvas in the corner of the balcony, and she took another drag of her cigarette. Portraiture of a Broken Mind. It was touted as groundbreaking, a revelation in color and medium. It was bullshit, but bullshit paid the bills.

Another exhale left her lips, adding to the already thick cloud of haze that billowed around her. Her cigarette was almost finished, a last gasp of embers at the edge of the filter, a dying star. She continued her perusal through her phone. There were the vapid ramblings from her fellow artists, most with names rooted in obscurity and pretentiousness. At the moment her favorite was Zebra, a tall lanky man with a brow constantly furrowed and sunken, tired eyes the color of algae. He worked with glass and spoke in riddles. Occasionally they’d get high together and do what most artists did, bask in their self-importance. He was inviting her out to lunch tomorrow, although he never ate anything himself. He did what he always did, ordered a glass of water, and slowly ate the ice cubes one at a time, scooping them out with his bare hand, until she had finished her meal. She asked him about it once, but he answered without answering. “It helps me see,” he replied earnestly. It was a conversation in futility, and Amelie never wasted energy on endeavors without resolution.

She finished her cigarette and tossed the butt over the railing, watching as the last remnants of its life dimmed in the night air. The rest of her messages weren’t worth a prompt reply, especially those from her sister, who always spoke with maddening sincerity.

It’s a match. The notification slid down the top of her phone, mocking her with its brazenness. It was rare Amelie ever matched with anyone on Tinder. Sex was always at her fingertips, especially with a social circle as vast and shallow as hers was. She was surrounded by artists and those that were unburdened by inhibition. Anthony Smith. Oh. Oh. Now this was interesting. She had forgotten in the day’s events of the gem she had managed to find while aimlessly scrolling through her phone. Memory washed over her, pungent and warm. She was back in that dark room as a teenager, watching a grainy screen through red-rimmed eyes as Frankie’s voice crooned through the speakers. He was her ultimate high, one she chased with maddening intensity. Every day she searched for something to rekindle the feeling of wholeness he sparked within her. It was wasted effort. His songs were appetizers her soul subsisted on, temporary amelioration to the schism left in his absence. It wasn’t enough. She needed him.

Over the years she thought about arranging a meeting with Frankie. It was easy enough with the connections her last name afforded, but every plan she concocted was too artificial. What she had experienced the first time with Frankie was untainted in its happenstance. So, she waited, and now fate had seen fit to bless her persistence. Anthony Smith, Frankie’s brother. He had been absent over the years, but the last name, the subtle similarity in their features, there was no doubt who he was. Amelie never let herself hope, which is why she had forgotten about him immediately after swiping right. What a pleasant surprise.

g'day! or should I be saying bonjour instead?

Cute. Her lips quirked upward as she typed out a quick response.

Well aren't you cute. I have to say I'm partial to g'day, much more exotic. But what brings you to our little corner of the world? I've had a few art exhibits in Australia, and I'd have stayed forever if they’d let me.

She was treading in unfamiliar waters. Her profile was quirky and engaging, witty without being too self-indulgent. Her messages were the opposite. “My place or yours?” “Look, I just want to fuck.” “Don’t worry about impressing me. I’m only interested in sex.” She made a point of never seeing the same guy twice except for the rare exception where the sex warranted a bend in her rules. For these matches, she opened her home, and they spent the month ensnared in each other’s bodies. She devoured these men, enrapturing them so wholly they prostrated themselves at her feet. Then she left them, holding the fractured pieces of their psyche within her palms, bits of broken glass she scattered like fallen stars. It was much easier to engage with her fellow artists. They held little substance, bolstered by ego and self-righteousness. The separation was always easy, though far less satisfying. Now she had to temper those urges. Anthony wasn’t someone she could break, not if she wanted what she had always yearned for. Her body thrummed with anticipation, and she lit another cigarette, exhaling a cloud that coiled high into the sky.

© weldherwings.

 

[weldherwings]

Mood

that is a very attractive 50 by 50 pixel icon you have there, m’lady

Location

Frankie Smith's fifth spare house or something.

Outfit

trusty jeans and plain shirt

Tag

Iniquitous

anthony smith.

Ant’s head stayed low, buried into the bedding and mattress below him, as he continued to mentally assault himself. “What the fuck are you doing mate,” he cursed himself, feeling even more on edge and his feathers ruffled. “Should I say bonjour? God dammit, you’re an absolute idiot. Why the fuck did I think that I could even do this? I’m no good at th-”

The chime of his phone stopped him mid sentence. Something kicked the wind from his stomach, and Ant’s ability to breathe was at an all time low. He felt sick to the stomach. Jesus, was he a student, pretending to have a stomach ache so he can go to the nurse’s office and skip an exam? Or was a full grown adult for fucks sake? Slowly, his bird nest like haired head raised from it’s position and his eyes locked in to the screen. It was a reply for her. Oh God, she replied so quickly. What if she was offended? What if she was going to tell him to piss off and that he was a creep. Swallowing thickly, his calloused fingers pressed against the screen and unlocked the message.

Well aren't you cute. I have to say I'm partial to g'day, much more exotic. But what brings you to our little corner of the world? I've had a few art exhibits in Australia, and I'd have stayed forever if they’d let me.

Oh.
Oh!

She thought he was cute? The serotonin skyrocketed, blasting through each vein in his body from that single word. Cute. Feeling giddy, Ant rolled over onto his back and held the phone in front of his face in the air, praying that he wouldn’t drop it right into his smacker. Okay, okay, okay. What was he meant to write now? His eyes glistened in glee as it repeatedly read, analysed and memorised her message with his tongue slowly tracing his lips as he concentrated. What should he respond with? Something about Australia? Something about art to seem like he was cool or something? Something about being exotic?!

Okay, okay, okay. He knew what to say.

Could say the same to you- unless did I manage to match with someone in France? That would be my luck. Matching with someone who lives half way around the world. And believe me. I’d rather be back home in Australia too. I’m practically here against my will. Families and their expectations to stick together in a happy little bundle.

And… sent!

His heart was thundering in his chest, echoing and rumbling through his whole being. One wrong thing, and he could screw this all up. After all, it was basically a blessing to be matched with anyone to begin with. Let alone someone whose profile picture icon – no matter how small it was – was incredibly attractive. Actually… how the heck did he even get to her profile? How the heck did he do anything on this app? Dammit, was he going to have to call Grace again??

© weldherwings.

 

[Iniquitous]

Mood

I want you to come over.

Location

New York Penthouse.

Outfit

Lounge chic

Tag

weldherwings

amélie dassault.

In the time it took for Ant to write his response, Amelie sought respite from the chilly New York air. She was inside her penthouse now, lounging across an L-shaped sectional far too large to ever accommodate the rare number of guests that crossed her threshold. She had poured herself a glass of wine and sipped from it intermittently as she gazed through the skylight that stretched over the entirety of her living room. Extending her index finger, she wove together the few stars that glinted overhead forming them into imaginary constellations. Her thoughts drifted towards her mother when Amelie was still a child, and they would lay down on the grassy hill behind their home. The stars were much brighter there, and the world felt much quieter. It was just the two of them, isolated in a world of their own making. Amelie’s mother would take her hand in her own, guiding her through constellation after constellation, whispering their names as if they were secrets only to be shared with each other. With each guiding movement, Amelie’s eyes grew heavier, lulled by the sound of her mother’s heartbeat and the wind whistling through the grass. Her phone vibrated on the table at her side, and she sat up with a groan, draining the rest of her wine with a single swig. “One day of knowing you Anthony Smith, and you’re already making me sentimental.”

lol, I haven’t lived in France since I was a child. I moved to New York when I was 16 after my mother died. I wish I could say the same about being a happy little bundle. I do have one stubbornly persistent sister, but I haven’t spoken to my father in years. Anthony Smith, there you go having me relive all my past traumas. Buy a girl dinner first c;

She pressed send and quickly began typing another message, worrying her bottom lip between her lip as her fingers danced across her keyboard.

I know Tinder is known for hooking up and casual sex, but what do you say we do something different? Provided you’re in New York of course, lol. I want to hear more about your happy little family, and I can tell you all about my lovely childhood, over a blunt, of course, maybe several. I don’t think I can bear to be sober for this conversation. It’s something crazy and wild, but what’s life without a little excitement? I want to be honest with you, right from the start, so tell me, do you want to be honest with me too? If so…here’s my address. Come over and show me how daring you can be.

She inhaled and pressed send, knowing she was probably coming on too strong. It had been too tempting to hear about Anthony’s past, to really delve into his mind, and feel his experiences. He was the closest thing she had to Frankie, and anything was better than treading in a pool of recollection. Was she always going to be like this, subsisting off of others' experiences, while refusing to relive her own? She went to Anthony’s profile and scrolled through his pictures, studying the intricacies of his face. She hadn’t been lying when she called him cute, but after taking the time to really look at him, handsome would have been a better descriptor. The way the edges of his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the easiness of his smile. Her fingers twitched, and she thought of sketching him, putting that pretty face to paper, and commemorating every crease, but that could come later. Now she had to wait, hoping she hadn’t fucked everything up with her impatience.

© weldherwings.

 

[weldherwings]

Mood

now i need a drink

Location

Frankie Smith's fifth spare house or something.

Outfit

trusty jeans and plain shirt

Tag

Iniquitous

anthony smith.

Amélie Dassault. There was something about this girl, wasn’t there? Only a few messages in and Ant was already feeling like a school girl texting their crush while sprawled out on their bed. A wide grin spread across his face, a warm wave of joy crashed onto his body as he read her quirky messages. There was a smiley face – he was in! However, no mater how ‘in’ he was, the next message left him in… well…

“I know Tinder is known for hooking up and casual sex-”

Those words burned his skin, blistering and bubbling as the memories began to form in his mind. Had he known that this was what Tinder was commonly used for, he would’ve flat out refused for Grace to install it onto his phone. Anger surged through his body, his frame becoming stiff at the thought of his own sister doing this to him. Well now, maybe she didn’t know about it. Maybe she knew that people met on Tinder, but didn’t know why they exactly met. Out of everyone in his family, Grace was the only one to actually sit and listen to what he had to say. To consider his side of the story of love and woe and to examine the scars on his heart left from someone that he trusted to hold onto it. Of course, there were the smiling pictures and those moments where he felt utter and complete bliss around her; lying in bed, tracing and connecting each freckle on her body as they replicated the constellations. But there were more so times of poison and toxic energy radiating through her every being. For every loving word that came from her plush lips, there were three times the amount of viper spits.

Swallowing the uneasy feeling sitting in the base of his stomach, Ant continued to read the message, hoping that maybe it would get better in some way shape or form. Well, now, the mention of a blunt did make his ears prick up. After running through those emotions and memories, he felt like getting high and having some drinks would soothe this aching soul. However, there were red flags. This girl had started her message off talking about sex and hooking up, added in weed and drinking, and was now ending it with an invitation over to her house. Everything in the beginning and end was screaming ‘danger!’. However the middle part.. well, that was as sweet as a caramel filled toffee. It was an offer that he was struggling to resist, especially having just moved here. He had zero weed contacts, making it basically impossible for him to acquire any of the glorious stuff.

After an eternity, Ant finally decided to suck it up and bite the bullet. What was the worst that could happen? Well, apart from dying or getting sexually assaulted again. Hell, he was intrigued to how she would even go about murdering him – where would she put the body? What would be her alibi? He needed to stop watching crime investigation shows.

How about - I’ll meet you at the front of your place in the next hour and we go to a nearby pub? That, or I can meet you at the pub if you want? We can smoke a blunt before we head in if you want. After all, the saying does go “beer before bong you’re in the wrong. Bong before beer, you’re in the clear”

© weldherwings.

 

[Iniquitous]

Mood

I want to see you, and I don't like that.

Location

Outside, New York Penthouse.

Outfit

Low Cut Casual

Tag

weldherwings

amélie dassault.

As the minutes ticked by, Amelie poured herself another glass of wine and grabbed her sketchbook. It looked like she had managed to scare off the only connection she had to Frankie’s life. She and Frankie ran in circles adjacent to each other. The rich and famous always had ways of connecting but running across Anthony’s profile by happenstance felt like kismet. New York was a cesspool of the rich and famous, and Amelie tried to keep her associations with them to a minimum. Her last name was a brand burned into every conversation, every relationship she ever had. Were her accomplishments earned or given, what made people approach her? Every interaction had to be weighed against sincerity. Luckily in New York, deceit ran rampant. Nobody was as they appeared, and everyone was out to use each other. At least here she didn’t have to guess at people’s intentions, everyone was a steppingstone for another person’s ambition. It only made genuine connections all the more precious.

She took a sip from her wine glass and flipped her sketchbook to an empty page. There was no reason a perfectly good face should go to waste. Placing her phone next to her sketchbook she pulled up Ant’s profile and grabbed a pencil. She couldn’t remember the last time she created art only for herself. Most of her creations were made to be sold, dictated by the whims of the public. She started with a simple outline, an amorphous mob of shapes, that transformed into something more recognizable. His eyes were so expressive, and she found herself getting lost in them as her pencil dashed across the paper. Amelie was fascinated by humanity’s beauty, the asymmetry of a face, the techniques people used to cover their blemishes and wipe away everything that made them…them. She rarely did portraits, but when she did, she stripped the person bare, down to the marrow of their existence. In return, Amelie gave them authenticity. When she had finished with her subject, they separated, walking away with the knowledge that each had a piece of the other, raw and ugly, something nobody else could ever possess. It was a draining process, albeit a successful one. Those paintings were always well received, and the money clients offered was exorbitant. Yet, she never sold them. Instead, they rotated through galleries and installations, offering a glimpse into the soul of her subject.

She sighed wistfully and finished the rest of her wine when her phone buzzed against the table. Her eyes scanned through his message, and she laughed. He didn’t shy away from the unconventional, she liked that in a man.

Smart. I could be a murderer, luring handsome men to my apartment to steal their organs. Since you’ve foiled my plans, the least you can do is buy me a drink ; ) Cute saying, I don’t think I’ve heard that before. How about you meet me outside my apartment, and we smoke on the walk over. The bar owner is a friend of mine, but he absolutely hates when I smoke inside, which of course means I do it anyways. But I’ll be good this time, make sure you’re set up for the best first impression. See you soon, Anthony.

As she set her phone down, her body thrummed, and she realized…she was excited. It was unexpected but not altogether unpleasant. There were few things Amelie enjoyed in life, and most of them were illegal. She couldn’t remember the last time she had spent an evening alone with somebody, zero expectations, just talking. She slipped out of her robe and looked through her closet, settling on a red, loose-fitting top and a pair of jeans. The rest of her routine was quick, and she studied herself in the mirror, satisfied by what she saw. There were about 15 minutes until Anthony was supposed to arrive, so she grabbed her purse and stuffed a variety of joints and blunts inside. She tried not to judge people based on her tolerance, especially since few people consumed drugs as she did. There was no telling what kind of a stoner Ant was, and the last thing she wanted to do was get him high enough that pleasure turned to panic. With nimble fingers she rolled herself a joint, stuffing the paper full of a strong hybrid with a silly name guaranteed to take the edge off. Her tongue sealed the roll shut, and she brought the joint to her lips before heading downstairs and out to the front of her building. With a flick of her lighter, the paper receded into ash, and she inhaled, holding the smoke in her lungs for several seconds before exhaling a cloud of sweet, pungent smoke. She pulled out her phone and checked the time. Any minute now he’d round the corner, and she’d pry into that pretty little head of his, curious to see how much they could take from each other and what would remain when they were finished.

© weldherwings.

 

[weldherwings]

Mood

shitting myself.

Location

Probably standing where he's gonna get murdered eventually

Outfit

trusty jeans and plain shirt

Tag

Iniquitous

anthony smith.

This was happening.
Shit.
This was happening.

What the hell did he just get himself into? He had only been on the dating app for less than six hours and was already planning to meet up with some complete stranger that could eventually lead him to his death bed. It wasn’t the smartest thing he had ever done – but then again, his whole life was just a concoction of terrible ideas fueled by unfathomable and impossible dreams. But this. Oh, was this going to be the one to take the cake? Was this finally going to be his last huzzah? Well, I suppose it was probably the best time to go if he had to pick it himself.

With final confirmations, Ant could feel his heart circle pit in his rib cage, banging up against the bones and rattling them. Why the heck was he so nervous? Climbing off his bed, his hazel blue eyes hastily darted over to the opened, sprawled suitcase that sat in the corner of the room. He had been here for two weeks and was yet to go through his items, convinced that he wouldn’t be staying too long in this one location. A man could dream, right? But even as his vision danced over the multiple possible combinations, he still felt distressed.

When his brother had asked him to move to America, it meant having to return to his own house to pick up his belongings. It meant he had to basically return to the scene of the crime. Memories of the night stained the bedroom floorboards and scattered throughout the bathroom during his attempt to ease the flow. Handprints, tainted with maroon blood, left soft reminders on the hallway walls of the moment he attempted to run away from the love of his life as she came racing towards him with rage and a thirst to cause harm. So, as he packed his bags, his mind had locked down to protect himself. His hands just grabbed onto whatever was clean, whatever he could find and whatever would fit. His favourite pieces of clothing were left behind, stained with a memory that no amount of bleach could wash out.

A glimpse down at his current attire had him stumped for a moment. Would it be so bad if he just went with what he was wearing? A grey shirt and denim jeans? It wasn’t like it was an actual date, right? They were just going out for a smoke and a drink – nothing serious. Ant paused for a solid minute, his mind racing with an ongoing self-conscious war. Until, finally, one side was victorious and he came to the conclusion; it would be okay. The next issue was what shoes and how to get to her location. He had been tempted to skate there, but after looking upon the maps app, it indicated that skating would take forty minutes from here. Well, that was out of the picture. It looked like it was time to look at the other apps his sister had set up for him.

Within fifteen minutes, Ant was in the Uber car, adjusting the laces of his brown boots. Instead of a forty-minute skate, it had been cut down to a fifteen-minute drive. Once the car came to a stop, he gazed outside to find a woman standing out of the front of the location, joint already in his mouth and phone in her hand. Was this her? He thanked the driver before climbing out of the vehicle. The motion of climbing out brought a heavyweight upon his shoulders as every part of his body began to question him; What if she’s out of your league? What if she doesn’t think you’re attractive? What if she doesn’t like your hair? What if she doesn’t like the way you talk? What if she doesn’t like how you compliment her? While Ant was a fully grown man, there was still that young boy crying in the corner of his subconscious, nitpicking at everything and anything it could. A deep inhale would often drown the sound of those worrisome words and train of thoughts. And so, here we go.

A deep inhale.
And exhale.

And he made his way towards the figure that stood before him.

“Hey… Amélie?”

© weldherwings.