With both palms gently against the blue yoga mat and her eyes closed, Lucy struggled to block out the maniacal screaming and thumping of thrown furniture emanating from the apartment below. But the loud pop of a bullet -- and its appearance through the floor, inches from her head -- brought Lucy to her feet instantly.
Since their arrival nearly two weeks ago, the new tenants slowly unpacked with their belongings an eclectic and colourful catalogue of clanging and banging and shrieked obscenities, which Lucy enjoyed via the floor/ceiling membrane they shared. Today, having been interrupted during her Sunday morning relaxation regimen, Lucy had had enough. Clad in purple Lycra and a shroud of twenty-something-female "rage", Lucy marched out the front door of her apartment and rattled angrily down the emergency stairs.
Curling her recently-French-manicured fingers into a small fist, she knocked with purpose on the door of apartment 317, only then realizing the foolishness of confronting a gun owner (and certainly gun holder) armed only with yoga attire and the wholly non-threatening frame of a pilates instructor. Any confidence she had evaporated as the door swung open.
"What."
A green-eyed girl of modest proportions and a brown curly mane stood before Lucy. She looked sullen and her skin had an almost oily glow to it; nevertheless, she was not unpleasant to look at --save for the Glock in her left hand. She looked quizzically at Lucy, then spoke again.
"Lizzy?"
"What?" Lucy barely replied. Stunned, she couldn't take her eyes off of the dark piece of metal dangling from the girl's slender right arm. "No," she corrected with a dry voice, "I mean, my name is Lucy," and just as she felt after knocking on the door, another twinge of regret and panic coursed through her veins.
"Lizzzzz-eeee," said the green-eyed girl in a sing-song, and off-key, and sort of friendly way.
"I think I've got the wrong apartment." And she started to leave. But unlike her mouth, her legs did not automatically spring to action. She wobbled in her Lycra.
"Don't you remember me?" asked the gun-toting girl with a curious expression. She raised her arm and leaned against the threshold casually. The muzzle of her gun dangled awkwardly in the direction of Lucy's face. The curly-hair girl looked Lucy right in the eyes, and smiled. "It was in Cadiz."
Lucy's eyes widened.
* * *
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