by Daws, Amy
I walk through the narrow alley between the two shops that my flat sits above, shaking my head at the image of my idiot brothers trying to make a three-man-tower of themselves. They demanded a key from me, but I refused. I love my flat too much to give those animals access to it.
I have the penthouse above a large period building that hosts a Hookah Lounge and a gift shop on the ground level. I didn’t especially need the penthouse, but my dad insisted and, damn, it is bloody perfect. As soon as you walk in, you’re greeted with an entire wall of exposed natural brick, which compliments the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook a huge balcony. The balcony opens from the living room and the master suite is concealed by French doors on the left. On the right is a modern kitchen with glossy black cabinets and pale wooden countertops.
As if that all isn’t gorgeous enough, there’s a ladder up to a private rooftop terrace with a huge flowery oasis. My own personal secret garden. I wish I could say I tend to the flowers myself, but I do not have a green thumb. I pay someone to maintain it and it’s the best money I spend every single week. I spend hours up there reading and people watching down over my quaint neighbourhood. It’s dreamy.
I let myself into the side entrance where the private lift to my flat is located. I pop my key into the panel and push the only button labeled eleven. Just as the doors open into my flat, I’m socked right in the belly by none other than Bruce.
“Bruce! You vile monster. Get back,” I shout, grabbing him by the mouth and pushing him away from me. “Now just look at the state of me.” I glance down at my soaked jeans. The cheeky bastard has the nerve to drop down on his butt and cock his head at me in that cute puppy-dog way he still has about him.
“You think you’re cute, don’t ya?” I glare at him angrily. Bruce is an enormous Saint Bernard that I ended up with when one of my neighbours passed away six months ago. It was quite sad, really. Mrs. Renack lived one floor below me. Her children bought her Bruce as a puppy when she was diagnosed with cancer. She used to drop him off at my flat whenever she had to go for treatments and we always had the loveliest chats. But unfortunately, Bruce isn’t a miracle worker. When I showed up for the funeral, her kids spoke of sending him to a shelter and I couldn’t stomach the thought.
The horrid animal weighs nearly 140 pounds now, and his big head reaches all the way up to my waist. He’s got a half white face with a mahogany brindle covering his right eye. The rest of his body is spotted with various shades of black, brown, red, and tan amongst his white fur. “I’m going to get you into classes one of these days, Bruce. You mark my words.” His enormous tongue flicks out and licks his nose as he continues to stare at me expectantly. Two streams of drool hang from his chops as he awaits my command.
“All right, all right,” I groan. “Let’s go have a walkies.” He leaps up from his spot and rushes into the kitchen and grabs his lead, dragging it across the white slate flooring. He may not be well-trained for greetings, but he sure as shite knows how to get a walk. I clip the leash onto his collar and head out to let him relieve himself. It’s a lot like leading a small horse rather than walking a dog. The looks I get are rather comical considering the bugger weighs more than I do.
This area of town is quite busy with tourists and shoppers, but anywhere you live in London you’ll always find a quiet, green oasis amongst all the hustle and bustle. These tiny parks are my favourite part of London. And the park I take Bruce is extra special because it has an entire area just for dogs.
Once we return, I lead him into the kitchen to refresh his water and feed him. I then pop into my en suite bathroom to get ready for the evening. Bruce eventually resumes his post at the bathroom doorway, watching me the entire time with those sad puppy-dog eyes that say, “You look like you’re going out for the night…I hope this means you’re taking me. And oh, can you scratch my back while you’re at it, pretty please?”
“Not this time, Mongrel,” I say, patting his head and applying one last layer of mascara. I give myself a final once-over in the mirror. I’ve always been the thinner, ganglier, awkward type—like a young girl who still hasn’t hit puberty. Leslie used to say I had a runway model’s body, but I’d much rather have a bit more meat and some curves than the spindly frame I inherited from my mother. It’s easy to develop a complex over thin legs when you have footballers with massive muscular thighs for brothers.
Still, this dress makes me feel like I actually have curves. It’s a diamond white, sweetheart strapless, fit-to-flare cut dress. I curl my platinum blonde locks into loose, soft waves and pin them off to one side so they trail down the front of my exposed shoulder. My minimal makeup allows my bright blue eyes to carry the show. Add a layer of peach gloss and I think I’ve actually achieved the perfect sun-kissed look I was going for.
Tonight, I feel different. Tonight, I feel ready for anything. Continue reading
