@worthless-weight-in-gold //
FADE IN... A lone billboard flickers in the night, atop a mid-size apartment building made of red brick. In the style of an exploitation film from the 1970s, its text reads ███'s WRAG TAG WRECKING CREW! The official name has been scratched out from decades of wear and tear. This side of the city is quiet. All quiet, except for— INT. LIZZIE & EMJAY'S APARTMENT — NIGHT The violent smacking of a palm against a CD player, one from the late 90s or early 2000s. The force of it rattles all the other shit that's on the set of drawers. Perfumes, lipsticks, a fidget spinner. A picture frame falls flat on its belly. We eventually see LIZZIE, 29, almost 30, a short young woman with a curl of wet hair sticking out of a towel. She's using her other hand to hold a towel around herself together. She has faced off with this CD player before but it has never won. The song finally plays. When I'm out walking I strut my stuff And I'm so strung out I'm high as a kite I just might stop to check you out
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"How many times have I told you to get rid'a that thing?" Emily asks, brushing past Lizzie on the way to the vanity. And it's the vanity, not her vanity, because it's more of a shared space—sort of like everything else in this apartment, even though it's meant just for the two of them. She touches up her highlighter, keen on reflecting like a disco ball, and puts on jeweltry.
"It's, like, a relic at this point, Emjay. I can't get rid of it," Lizzie protests. "Besides, trust me, I went to Best Buy the other day. Fully intent on getting one, mind you. Shit cost, like, $50. That's, like, two nights of tips." Then she starts getting dressed with their backs turned to each other. Hell, who cares at this point.
"Yeah, Liz, but it's yer daggone berth-day," the girl from a ways out of Atlanta throws right back. "You deserve to treat yourself."
Now fully dressed in a fuchsia slip dress, Lizzie rests her chin on Emily's shoulder. "Why do that when I've got my best friends to do it for me?" She usually doesn't act this spoiled, but it's her daggone berth-day. She lets Emily do a bit of her makeup for fun and a few more Violent Femmes songs play before...
The pair step out of Emily's bedroom (yes, Lizzie keeps her shitty CD player in there) and present their outfits to the one waiting in the living room. The blonde does a simple spin. Lizzie's a lot more theatrical about it, fingers pinching either side of her dress and hoisting it up just so as she does a little shindig. Peacocking to her boyfriend, Mischa.
Who rolls his eyes. "It took you two long enough," he says. Then, in a louder voice: "Thes! You ready? I'm not saying it's your fault or anything, but I've literally been waiting here for almost an hour and a half. I have to be at soundcheck in 15 minutes."
Yes, for Lizzie's birthday, they'll be en route to The Wet Spot, one of the better venues in town, where Mischa's band's going to play a special set. A brand new song, apparently.
"We can't go yet! We have to take pictures," Lizzie says with a pout. "Thes, stand in the middle so it's not so obvious you're the tallest." She's usually not in the greatest mood, but nothing can burst her bubble tonight. The four of them are unstoppable as far as she's concerned, and that's to be celebrated.
