KH - Human, Too
Human, Too
Category: Kingdom Hearts
World: Queens-Verse
Character: Kairi
Genre: Slice of Life
Rating: T / PG-13
Chapters 1/1 - Complete
Beta: N/A
Disclaimer: Kingdom Hearts rights belong to Square Enix and Disney, respectfully. This piece of fiction is fan-made and I am making no money off of this.
Summary: Getting to be a published Journalist isn't easy in New York, and Kairi isn't having much luck. But then she meets the new temp, and her life changes, if just a little bit.
The coffee wasn't quite right that morning. It's a strange thing to note, so long after the fact, but thinking back that was the only form of a warning I had that something would be a bit different that day. Part of the top filter had decided at one point that having a small section of itself weaken was a good career choice. And thus, granules and all, my coffee was not quite right. It checked the package. Made in China.
Figures.
Sipping the mediocre elixir of life, I vowed to switch brands to one made in the U.S. It was one of those self notes that most people forget, though, so there was a pretty good chance that memory would serve that my foreign made coffee filters stealing American jobs and putting the country in debt were, in fact, still in stock and we- we being me- would be back to square one. Square one taking place every morning that I forget to add a third filter to my coffee maker because cheap imported stuff is cheap. But as coffee is a must, and there's no time to make another pot, said granule-infested elixir would not be re-made and square one would persist throughout the rest of the day. Or something.
Then, at work, one Kairi Panettiere- once again, me- worked as a page. And, as the occupation began in the morning, as most do, that meant coffee runs.
Usually my coffee was palatable. (To me, at least. I gave a sip to the HR receptionist once, and she announced that it was liquified shit. Kindly, though, and not quite in those exact words. But that was probably her inner dialogue as she was at work (as was I) and such language is usually frowned upon.) But that morning the granules just did not work. So when I went around that day I couldn't just slap on a smile when Brenda-the-HR-receptionist asked me about how my latest batch of articles went over with the local paper.
“That bad, huh?” the woman winced.
All by herself, that lady (and I use the term loosely) was a motivation all her own. A motivation to get my articles out and quit work as a page. It's not that she was rude- far from it. She was probably the nicest lady (again, lightly) in the office, and actually managed to be sincere. Brenda just... She had this way of going about things that made you want to punch her in the face. With a cactus.
“I'll take the list, now.” The list of over-done, super-sugared, fanciful drinks that so many people craved that morning was slipped into my hand, and I was reminded ever-so-normally that lactose intolerance should have really blown in my perspective. But it didn't. Sucking down granules and elixir from my travel mug through its handy heat-proof thick rubber straw that tasted of plastic and worn tires, I made my way to the R&D department.
Or, rather, I descended into Hell.
In retrospect, this is what I might call a very pretty rock sitting atop a pile of ship. Or, a “shit and miracle special.”
By that, I mean Research and development was known for signing on temp after temp to work as their receptionist, and this business practice wasn't intelligent or efficient. With every pencil pusher they hired on month after month they never bothered to show the worker to their work station until a contract had been signed and the worker's doom was assured. The doom of no computer. Everything was on paper. Everything.
No e-mail to notify the Department heads and their lackeys that so and so had dropped a package off. Everyone was expected to check in with them at certain times during the day- which they didn't. It was the only job worse than mine. Easily.
Among the paper mountain range that day was a pretty little thing. Behind the breeding cesspool of memos and packages and Pilates DVDs sat a pixie-like woman nursing a fingernail with her teeth. No make-up; just an unpainted face with big blue eyes, a small mouth, and the cutest nose one could imagine. Pock marks dotting shoulders and nose from teen years with acne. Model-skinny, too, and just a bit pale. Okay, a lot pale. The little white dress didn't help, either.
'Hello, my name is Naminé!” her name tag announced.
'Save me!' her expression declared.
“How may I help you?” her pretty little lips requested.
“Coffee run. Need the list.” Damn was she gorgeous. Probably straight, though. Or taken. Or boring. Or into feet. They usually were.
Cue an avalanche of paperwork. And memos. And packages. And Pilates DVDs. “I just set it down,” Naminé mused as she sorted through the wreckage. “Do you know what the DVDs are for?”
“Usually Pilates.” The woman laughed. “HR actually wanted everyone to do this anti-stress thing a while back.”
“Didn't take?”
“Not at all.” She held out a sheet, then went about sorting the packages from the pile when I'd taken it. “Thanks, and good luck!” I wished her, almost laughing as she waved me off, only her hand visible.
“Shoo!” she humorously snapped. “I have work to do.”
A grin stole across my face as I saluted mockingly. “Rightie oh, Mrs. Boss lady!”
Twenty minutes later, when I returned with coffee, I contemplated writing an article about the modern dependance on caffeine. The idea was then pushed aside. It had already been done a million times over. Setting the over-sweet concoctions on Namine's temporary desk I bid the woman farewell.
…
There was nothing to write. No topic to approach. Everything- every controversial, interesting topic- had already been covered. A million times over, someone had written it.
I despaired at my luck. After two years at Cambridge what did I have to show for it? A dead-end job as a page for a shampoo company and a studio apartment in Queens. Writer's block was a bitch. Combing a hand through my short-cropped red hair, I closed my laptop and stepped out onto the balcony just as a smooth line of notes cut through the filthy New York air.
Right on time.
Relaxing against the railing, I tried to imagine who was playing. The sound came from high up- one of the cheaper condos at the top. The woman in the apartment below me hissed a curse at the sky- it was eleven at night. Most people should be asleep.
That night I imagined the person playing to be a middle-aged black woman with the soul of a budding musician. She'd just come from an orgy and had some left over sensuality to burn that she wanted to share with the world. And somehow, playing the Saxophone high up in the sky in the great despair that is Queens, New York was the best way to do it. I soaked the sound in, as I had no instruments of my own to join her lovely song.
…
“So you like indie music?”
Naminé was a wonder. We'd begun talking over drinks in the mornings (bad coffee for me, tea for her) and it was plain to see that we could be friends if we had the time. Put in the effort. And stuff.
“Yeah, I do,” Naminé smoothed. Her voice was really sweet-sounding. “Do you know any venues around here?”
I grinned. She was gorgeous. “My friend Luxord plays down at the Bowler's Hat tonight. You should come.”
She smiled, brushing a long lock of blonde hair from her face as she boxed up all the Pilates DVDs for me to take to HR. “That would be cool. Count me in.”
“It's a date!” It wasn't, really. I just wanted to say it.
…
Gone was the little white dress, and in its place was a punky ensemble that I wouldn't have expected in a million years. Black tank-top turtleneck? Check. Jeans? Check. Chucks? Check. She was any dyke's wet dream. (I'll admit she'd already made a few cameos in mine.)
But why did she have to be straight?
She saw me as I approached, spitting her cigarette to the concrete and snubbing it out with her shoe. Her arms were sticks, and her breasts were swallowed in the black of her sweater, almost promising never to return. She was gorgeous.
“Hey,” she greeted.
“Hey yourself,” I replied.
We stepped into the venue. Ten minutes, two songs, a British accent, and two beers later we were whispering into each others' ears under the music. (Luxord, the vocalist, hadn't brought his A-Game, and everyone knew it. Even the bassist looked disappointed.)
“I usually bounce between jobs. In my free time I'm an impressionism oil painter.”
“No idea what that is.” Impressionism? What? It figured Naminé would be one of those sophisticated artist types.
She laughed. “I don't think anyone really does. What about you?” It took me a second to process what she'd said, what with my eyes glued to her chapped, pink, lovely lips.
A second passed before I managed a very vague, “I write.” She had a beautiful laugh. “Journalism mostly.”
“Are you good?”
A shrug. “I'd like to think so.”
“Ever think of going Pro?”
There it was. The question. I shook my head. “I've been trying, but it takes more than talent to make it these days. Being good isn't good enough. All my old stuff is on topics that have already been covered, and there's almost nothing new to work with.”
There was a short pause, and the band's third song came to an end. “You could interview me,” she supplied suddenly. “I'm a local artist- it could work, I guess.”
My eyes went wide. “Seriously? You'd do that for me?”
“On one condition,” the woman added, twirling that blonde stand that refused to join the others around her left hand pointer finger. (She was left handed, I noticed.) “I'm beginning a new line of projects- lifestyle of a lesbian. You do the interview, and then consent to be my model.”
I thought about it. A straight woman painting a lesbian's life? “What will the series be called?”
She let out a breath. “Human, Too.” No joke.
With a grin, I took a swig of my beer and replied, “Count me in.”
…
This had to be some sort of wet dream. Or nightmare. That sounded about right. Because here Naminé was- gorgeous, Naminé, intellectual Naminé- taking pictures of my 'modern-day lesbian lifestyle.' And I couldn't bring myself to care, even when I stripped down to my birthday suit and crawled in bed, chatting with the woman all the way. At one point I'm pretty sure she took some nude pictures of me.
The usual questions were fired, and before long Namine's entire career had been outlined. Earlier one we'd paid a visit to her apartment, and a wall lined with crayons was easily the most amazing thing there, no offense meant to the woman's art. It was just strange. Awesome.
When Naminé finally fell asleep, I slipped out onto the balcony just in time to catch one last song by that smooth and sensual Saxophone. It was a teenage boy, that day, who just wanted to prove just how well he could love to someone. But there was no one he could adore, so he put his love into the sound, and hoped someone would hear it.
…
Munching on a piece of toast, reclining against the counter, I turned just in time for Namine's camera to catch me in profile. She lowered the Nikon. God, was she beautiful. The coffee maker putted along behind me. “Mornin',” I greeted.
“Morning,” she yawned in reply, not bothering to cover her mouth. She was the very picture of sex, clad only in one of my own blouses and panties. Through the top's thin fabric I could just make out the line of her small breasts, and the darker skin on her nipples. An embarrassing bit of me tightened as I examined how the shirt swallowed her figure, and her arms and legs were as twigs to the rest of her obscured body. Her hair was even rumpled.
We didn't have sex, though.
Unfortunately.
At that point one would usually ask how her night had been. How she slept. If she wanted breakfast. (If it had been good for her, too, but then again we didn't have sex. Unfortunately.) But I'm not normal, I guess, because I asked, “How are you so damn skinny?”
“I'm a recovering heroine addict.” Deadpan. Direct. No laughter.
She wasn't kidding.
“Oh,” I mused quietly, oddly not surprised by this at all. It was possible with everyone, anyways. “How long have you been clean?” She was going through her bag, then, and her thinly-clad behind moved from side to side in such a delicious manner that I turned away, tugging a mug from the cupboard. Something inside me tried not to stare too long when Naminé pulled pack of cigarettes from and hit it against her palm a few dozen times. She offered me one. They were cloves.
“I know you smoke,” the woman admonished when I hesitated. “There was a pack in your end-table, and I don't see any roommates.”
In retrospect, a good comeback would have been to say that my girlfriend was out of town. But that would have been a lie. There was no girlfriend. No roommate.
And the smoke was sweet.
We sat around blowing the scent of death and cloves for a bit. After two minutes coffee was poured. (For myself only, since Naminé doesn't like Joe.) After four minutes I moved to the futon-couch, where I alternated smoking, munching on toast, and sipping from my mug. Five minutes in the toast and coffee were gone, and the only thing left to do was smoke. It didn't take long for a familiar wetness to gather between my thighs.
At the ten minute mark she finally answered. “I've been clean for nine months, now.”
“How's that treating you?” I asked her then, unknowing of what I had unlocked.
Her face twisted into some kind of angry sorrow, with her bottom lip in a sneer and her eyes narrowed at the floor. “I want it every fucking second of every fucking day.” She flicked her cigarette- long since a dead stub- into the trash. And she was gorgeous. As if she had descended from the heavens themselves, she shone. Face pocketed from a pimple-ridden puberty, hair slick with grease, skin pale as the moon, reeking of cigarettes, and she was drop-dead gorgeous. The beauty of an artist.
And she was tempted. All the time.
I walked over, dropping my own butt into the trash. We were so close, now, and my jeans and t-shirt were already enemies. “Let's have sex.”
Naminé didn't blink. Didn't recoil. “I won't reciprocate.”
“You don't have to.”
Silence.
“Okay.”
…
It had been a month.
Namine's scent had left the apartment, and the taste of her hadn't been so delicious that I remembered it. Our time together hadn't been so amazing that she would stay. Naminé may have been gorgeous, but she was also straight. No amount of lesbian fucking would change that.
So there I was, a month later, sucking down a clove in my ratty apartment in Queens. The night sky was a deep blue, infected by the light pollution and the disgusting New York air. A Saxophone layered sound over the cityscape. Today it was a retired Marine Vet. Who'd served in Korea way back when. Upon returning home his friends got hooked on drugs, but he'd turned to music, instead. He was the strong one.
The day's newspaper sat on my coffee table, and the words stared up at the world from the front page as if they knew their existence was my pride and joy.
Human, Too.
By Kairi Panettiere
Many know Naminé Stoner as a local impressionist artist, but there's a bit more to the story than that.
Category: Kingdom Hearts
World: Queens-Verse
Character: Kairi
Genre: Slice of Life
Rating: T / PG-13
Chapters 1/1 - Complete
Beta: N/A
Disclaimer: Kingdom Hearts rights belong to Square Enix and Disney, respectfully. This piece of fiction is fan-made and I am making no money off of this.
Summary: Getting to be a published Journalist isn't easy in New York, and Kairi isn't having much luck. But then she meets the new temp, and her life changes, if just a little bit.
The coffee wasn't quite right that morning. It's a strange thing to note, so long after the fact, but thinking back that was the only form of a warning I had that something would be a bit different that day. Part of the top filter had decided at one point that having a small section of itself weaken was a good career choice. And thus, granules and all, my coffee was not quite right. It checked the package. Made in China.
Figures.
Sipping the mediocre elixir of life, I vowed to switch brands to one made in the U.S. It was one of those self notes that most people forget, though, so there was a pretty good chance that memory would serve that my foreign made coffee filters stealing American jobs and putting the country in debt were, in fact, still in stock and we- we being me- would be back to square one. Square one taking place every morning that I forget to add a third filter to my coffee maker because cheap imported stuff is cheap. But as coffee is a must, and there's no time to make another pot, said granule-infested elixir would not be re-made and square one would persist throughout the rest of the day. Or something.
Then, at work, one Kairi Panettiere- once again, me- worked as a page. And, as the occupation began in the morning, as most do, that meant coffee runs.
Usually my coffee was palatable. (To me, at least. I gave a sip to the HR receptionist once, and she announced that it was liquified shit. Kindly, though, and not quite in those exact words. But that was probably her inner dialogue as she was at work (as was I) and such language is usually frowned upon.) But that morning the granules just did not work. So when I went around that day I couldn't just slap on a smile when Brenda-the-HR-receptionist asked me about how my latest batch of articles went over with the local paper.
“That bad, huh?” the woman winced.
All by herself, that lady (and I use the term loosely) was a motivation all her own. A motivation to get my articles out and quit work as a page. It's not that she was rude- far from it. She was probably the nicest lady (again, lightly) in the office, and actually managed to be sincere. Brenda just... She had this way of going about things that made you want to punch her in the face. With a cactus.
“I'll take the list, now.” The list of over-done, super-sugared, fanciful drinks that so many people craved that morning was slipped into my hand, and I was reminded ever-so-normally that lactose intolerance should have really blown in my perspective. But it didn't. Sucking down granules and elixir from my travel mug through its handy heat-proof thick rubber straw that tasted of plastic and worn tires, I made my way to the R&D department.
Or, rather, I descended into Hell.
In retrospect, this is what I might call a very pretty rock sitting atop a pile of ship. Or, a “shit and miracle special.”
By that, I mean Research and development was known for signing on temp after temp to work as their receptionist, and this business practice wasn't intelligent or efficient. With every pencil pusher they hired on month after month they never bothered to show the worker to their work station until a contract had been signed and the worker's doom was assured. The doom of no computer. Everything was on paper. Everything.
No e-mail to notify the Department heads and their lackeys that so and so had dropped a package off. Everyone was expected to check in with them at certain times during the day- which they didn't. It was the only job worse than mine. Easily.
Among the paper mountain range that day was a pretty little thing. Behind the breeding cesspool of memos and packages and Pilates DVDs sat a pixie-like woman nursing a fingernail with her teeth. No make-up; just an unpainted face with big blue eyes, a small mouth, and the cutest nose one could imagine. Pock marks dotting shoulders and nose from teen years with acne. Model-skinny, too, and just a bit pale. Okay, a lot pale. The little white dress didn't help, either.
'Hello, my name is Naminé!” her name tag announced.
'Save me!' her expression declared.
“How may I help you?” her pretty little lips requested.
“Coffee run. Need the list.” Damn was she gorgeous. Probably straight, though. Or taken. Or boring. Or into feet. They usually were.
Cue an avalanche of paperwork. And memos. And packages. And Pilates DVDs. “I just set it down,” Naminé mused as she sorted through the wreckage. “Do you know what the DVDs are for?”
“Usually Pilates.” The woman laughed. “HR actually wanted everyone to do this anti-stress thing a while back.”
“Didn't take?”
“Not at all.” She held out a sheet, then went about sorting the packages from the pile when I'd taken it. “Thanks, and good luck!” I wished her, almost laughing as she waved me off, only her hand visible.
“Shoo!” she humorously snapped. “I have work to do.”
A grin stole across my face as I saluted mockingly. “Rightie oh, Mrs. Boss lady!”
Twenty minutes later, when I returned with coffee, I contemplated writing an article about the modern dependance on caffeine. The idea was then pushed aside. It had already been done a million times over. Setting the over-sweet concoctions on Namine's temporary desk I bid the woman farewell.
…
There was nothing to write. No topic to approach. Everything- every controversial, interesting topic- had already been covered. A million times over, someone had written it.
I despaired at my luck. After two years at Cambridge what did I have to show for it? A dead-end job as a page for a shampoo company and a studio apartment in Queens. Writer's block was a bitch. Combing a hand through my short-cropped red hair, I closed my laptop and stepped out onto the balcony just as a smooth line of notes cut through the filthy New York air.
Right on time.
Relaxing against the railing, I tried to imagine who was playing. The sound came from high up- one of the cheaper condos at the top. The woman in the apartment below me hissed a curse at the sky- it was eleven at night. Most people should be asleep.
That night I imagined the person playing to be a middle-aged black woman with the soul of a budding musician. She'd just come from an orgy and had some left over sensuality to burn that she wanted to share with the world. And somehow, playing the Saxophone high up in the sky in the great despair that is Queens, New York was the best way to do it. I soaked the sound in, as I had no instruments of my own to join her lovely song.
…
“So you like indie music?”
Naminé was a wonder. We'd begun talking over drinks in the mornings (bad coffee for me, tea for her) and it was plain to see that we could be friends if we had the time. Put in the effort. And stuff.
“Yeah, I do,” Naminé smoothed. Her voice was really sweet-sounding. “Do you know any venues around here?”
I grinned. She was gorgeous. “My friend Luxord plays down at the Bowler's Hat tonight. You should come.”
She smiled, brushing a long lock of blonde hair from her face as she boxed up all the Pilates DVDs for me to take to HR. “That would be cool. Count me in.”
“It's a date!” It wasn't, really. I just wanted to say it.
…
Gone was the little white dress, and in its place was a punky ensemble that I wouldn't have expected in a million years. Black tank-top turtleneck? Check. Jeans? Check. Chucks? Check. She was any dyke's wet dream. (I'll admit she'd already made a few cameos in mine.)
But why did she have to be straight?
She saw me as I approached, spitting her cigarette to the concrete and snubbing it out with her shoe. Her arms were sticks, and her breasts were swallowed in the black of her sweater, almost promising never to return. She was gorgeous.
“Hey,” she greeted.
“Hey yourself,” I replied.
We stepped into the venue. Ten minutes, two songs, a British accent, and two beers later we were whispering into each others' ears under the music. (Luxord, the vocalist, hadn't brought his A-Game, and everyone knew it. Even the bassist looked disappointed.)
“I usually bounce between jobs. In my free time I'm an impressionism oil painter.”
“No idea what that is.” Impressionism? What? It figured Naminé would be one of those sophisticated artist types.
She laughed. “I don't think anyone really does. What about you?” It took me a second to process what she'd said, what with my eyes glued to her chapped, pink, lovely lips.
A second passed before I managed a very vague, “I write.” She had a beautiful laugh. “Journalism mostly.”
“Are you good?”
A shrug. “I'd like to think so.”
“Ever think of going Pro?”
There it was. The question. I shook my head. “I've been trying, but it takes more than talent to make it these days. Being good isn't good enough. All my old stuff is on topics that have already been covered, and there's almost nothing new to work with.”
There was a short pause, and the band's third song came to an end. “You could interview me,” she supplied suddenly. “I'm a local artist- it could work, I guess.”
My eyes went wide. “Seriously? You'd do that for me?”
“On one condition,” the woman added, twirling that blonde stand that refused to join the others around her left hand pointer finger. (She was left handed, I noticed.) “I'm beginning a new line of projects- lifestyle of a lesbian. You do the interview, and then consent to be my model.”
I thought about it. A straight woman painting a lesbian's life? “What will the series be called?”
She let out a breath. “Human, Too.” No joke.
With a grin, I took a swig of my beer and replied, “Count me in.”
…
This had to be some sort of wet dream. Or nightmare. That sounded about right. Because here Naminé was- gorgeous, Naminé, intellectual Naminé- taking pictures of my 'modern-day lesbian lifestyle.' And I couldn't bring myself to care, even when I stripped down to my birthday suit and crawled in bed, chatting with the woman all the way. At one point I'm pretty sure she took some nude pictures of me.
The usual questions were fired, and before long Namine's entire career had been outlined. Earlier one we'd paid a visit to her apartment, and a wall lined with crayons was easily the most amazing thing there, no offense meant to the woman's art. It was just strange. Awesome.
When Naminé finally fell asleep, I slipped out onto the balcony just in time to catch one last song by that smooth and sensual Saxophone. It was a teenage boy, that day, who just wanted to prove just how well he could love to someone. But there was no one he could adore, so he put his love into the sound, and hoped someone would hear it.
…
Munching on a piece of toast, reclining against the counter, I turned just in time for Namine's camera to catch me in profile. She lowered the Nikon. God, was she beautiful. The coffee maker putted along behind me. “Mornin',” I greeted.
“Morning,” she yawned in reply, not bothering to cover her mouth. She was the very picture of sex, clad only in one of my own blouses and panties. Through the top's thin fabric I could just make out the line of her small breasts, and the darker skin on her nipples. An embarrassing bit of me tightened as I examined how the shirt swallowed her figure, and her arms and legs were as twigs to the rest of her obscured body. Her hair was even rumpled.
We didn't have sex, though.
Unfortunately.
At that point one would usually ask how her night had been. How she slept. If she wanted breakfast. (If it had been good for her, too, but then again we didn't have sex. Unfortunately.) But I'm not normal, I guess, because I asked, “How are you so damn skinny?”
“I'm a recovering heroine addict.” Deadpan. Direct. No laughter.
She wasn't kidding.
“Oh,” I mused quietly, oddly not surprised by this at all. It was possible with everyone, anyways. “How long have you been clean?” She was going through her bag, then, and her thinly-clad behind moved from side to side in such a delicious manner that I turned away, tugging a mug from the cupboard. Something inside me tried not to stare too long when Naminé pulled pack of cigarettes from and hit it against her palm a few dozen times. She offered me one. They were cloves.
“I know you smoke,” the woman admonished when I hesitated. “There was a pack in your end-table, and I don't see any roommates.”
In retrospect, a good comeback would have been to say that my girlfriend was out of town. But that would have been a lie. There was no girlfriend. No roommate.
And the smoke was sweet.
We sat around blowing the scent of death and cloves for a bit. After two minutes coffee was poured. (For myself only, since Naminé doesn't like Joe.) After four minutes I moved to the futon-couch, where I alternated smoking, munching on toast, and sipping from my mug. Five minutes in the toast and coffee were gone, and the only thing left to do was smoke. It didn't take long for a familiar wetness to gather between my thighs.
At the ten minute mark she finally answered. “I've been clean for nine months, now.”
“How's that treating you?” I asked her then, unknowing of what I had unlocked.
Her face twisted into some kind of angry sorrow, with her bottom lip in a sneer and her eyes narrowed at the floor. “I want it every fucking second of every fucking day.” She flicked her cigarette- long since a dead stub- into the trash. And she was gorgeous. As if she had descended from the heavens themselves, she shone. Face pocketed from a pimple-ridden puberty, hair slick with grease, skin pale as the moon, reeking of cigarettes, and she was drop-dead gorgeous. The beauty of an artist.
And she was tempted. All the time.
I walked over, dropping my own butt into the trash. We were so close, now, and my jeans and t-shirt were already enemies. “Let's have sex.”
Naminé didn't blink. Didn't recoil. “I won't reciprocate.”
“You don't have to.”
Silence.
“Okay.”
…
It had been a month.
Namine's scent had left the apartment, and the taste of her hadn't been so delicious that I remembered it. Our time together hadn't been so amazing that she would stay. Naminé may have been gorgeous, but she was also straight. No amount of lesbian fucking would change that.
So there I was, a month later, sucking down a clove in my ratty apartment in Queens. The night sky was a deep blue, infected by the light pollution and the disgusting New York air. A Saxophone layered sound over the cityscape. Today it was a retired Marine Vet. Who'd served in Korea way back when. Upon returning home his friends got hooked on drugs, but he'd turned to music, instead. He was the strong one.
The day's newspaper sat on my coffee table, and the words stared up at the world from the front page as if they knew their existence was my pride and joy.
Human, Too.
By Kairi Panettiere
Many know Naminé Stoner as a local impressionist artist, but there's a bit more to the story than that.