Time And Time Again

3

The dirty-blonde haired girl sat at the kitchen table, gnawing thoughtfully on the end of her pencil. The faint smell of lavender from the reed diffuser on the windowsill filled the room, and the table was littered with all of her supplies; Spare pencils, stacks of blank paper, manila folders full of pages of writing.
Yet the whole house just felt empty, and Jean just could not fücking concentrate.
Maybe it was the clutter. Or the way the light was shining in through the blinds and in her eyes, only magnified by her thick framed reading glasses. Or it was the uncharacteristic silence that had overtaken the house.
You'd think it would be nice, some quiet time to work on your writing.  But as Jean was beginning to understand, you start to grow accustomed to the background noise. It helps you focus. And you don't realize how much you need to to help you focus until it's gone.
As the writer pressed the pencil to the paper to finish a verse, the lead snapped. Was so damn quiet she could hear the broken graphite rattle quietly as it hit the floor. She groaned in annoyance and reached for another pencil to continue her work.
Finally satisfied with the words she'd written down, she reached for a fresh manila folder to organize her work. Jean momentarily glanced down at her phone, like she was expecting a text. Hoping for a text from her housemate, but there was nothing.
This wasn't anything new; Frank was just always going non-stop. If she wasn't out with friends, she was cooped up in her bedroom, experimenting with different chords and rhythms, and being as loud as humanely possible while trying to come up with parts for everyone.
Frankie and Jean definitely complimented one another nicely, though, to say the least. Jean was so plain; She smelled of brown sugar and cinnamon, and she wore loose, baggy, simple clothing; her main focus was comfort, for both her and those around her. Her soft, blonde hair remained tied in a bun most days, to keep it out of the way. She was skinny by no means, with thick thighs, gentle curves, and a slightly pudgy stomach. Such a warm appearance. Like that of a teacher or mentor.
And Frankie had the appearance of a rockstar, which she was. She was made of music, and glitter and glam. Tall and skeletal, with blue-grey eyes that always seemed to be staring into the distance longingly. Her hair was red and it was frizzy from styling and coloring. She had sharp, defined, almost rat like features, thick lashes, and a smile that seemed hand crafted for the stage. And her fashion sense was just as outlandish as her appearance.
Even on days she dressed down, she was always far more flamboyant than Jean's dressing-up days. Satin shirts, large flared pants, wedged platforms. Frankie looked like a glitter rock icon straight out of the 1970s.
Jean had always been preferred to live her life out of the spotlight, whereas her partner couldn't seem to live without it. And god, she made it look good. Jean had always wondered how she did it; How she effortlessly pranced around stage in a pair of high heels. Hell, how she was even able to pull off some of the outfits that she wore. Sequin covered jackets, fishnets cowboy hats, skin tight spandex, a shit ton of feathers— whatever the hell she pulled out of her closet next. It was always a treat watching her come out of the dressing room before a show, each outfit a little more outrageous than the last. Frankie May was a beautiful, chaotic pain in the ass, that was for sure.
And god, Jean loved it. Though she'd definitely changed since they first met.
It was at a little pub in Chicago; The Blue Lady. Jean remembers it fondly.
It was a temperate night; Didn't happen often in Chicago. She came to Blue Lady often, not to drink— She didn't do that— But to enjoy a plate of their crunchy steak fries and a nice show. Blue Lady put on shows at night by paid artists ; Sometimes there were musicians, sometimes there were short plays; She'd even seen poets reading their works aloud, and at times considered signing up, but she knew she wouldn't be able to handle the pressure. She couldn't handle public speaking, she knew for a fact. Jean was a mellow, nervous sort of girl. The kind of girl who blends in at parties. The girl who sits with two friends at the lunch table. And there were always so many great acts at the Blue Lady, surely whatever she would read would be put to shame.
Another thing the Blue Lady had was the men. Lots of perverted men, staring her down and making remarks about her face and body. She didn't know why the did it. Could they not take a hint? Were her piercing side eyes not enough? Didn't the pink and orange pin on her bag mean nothing to them? Are they too stupid to understand?
After being berated by a particularly problematic group of guys, she'd retreated to the bathroom, glass of iced tea in hand.
She entered the unusually empty room quietly; Took a deep breath, and noticed another young woman, around her age, looking herself up and down in the mirror, wearing a tight red dress and a pair of matching suede pumps. Her hair was chopped just below her shoulders. The woman looked frazzled; panicked. She suddenly turned around, jumping a little when she noticed Jean standing there.
Jean flashed a toothy smile at the woman in the red dress, who waved in reply.
"Nice place isn't it?" the blonde said in a forced attempt to make small talk.
The other woman responded with a swift nod. Her dangling earrings shook with the movement
"Yeah. Lots of people."
"So, what's your name?"
There was an extended moment of silence, as if she were thinking. And finally she responded.
"Frankie May. Pleasure meeting you."
“Love your outfit. You on a date?”
She shook her head forlornly.
“I’m tonight’s act.”
The two had become inseparable after that night. She wrote poems, and Frankie added music. Then she'd perform them for the crowd. And soon enough, things happened, a record label found her, and suddenly there was a band and Jean and Frankie had a home together in Hollywood.