The night before the wedding.

A hazy light shone through Sydney’s window, reflecting across a pair of misty eyes. She held her breath as wordless sounds traveled from one phone to the next, through a silvery cord of silence.

“So tomorrow…your wedding…finally.”

“Yes…finally.”

“Congratu – ”

Click.

A small sound; a plasticy click like the switch of a light or a pair of acrylic nails. To Sydney, it felt like the jab of a knife, click, into her skull.

To maintain composure in front of the invisible crowd in her apartment, she calmly placed the phone back onto its cradle and muttered a casual “bye”. See, a normal phone conversation with a normal goodbye. Marilyn Monroe, all four of them, glared at her. What are you staring at? Sydney threw a piece of chocolate at the poster women. She broke off another piece and another and another, placing them one by one into her mouth, like a well-prepared hamster. The chocolate turned gooey as rows of teeth mechanically moved up and down, chop, chop, chop. She set her jaw to pause when chocolate drooled out of her mouth down her face covering her lips in streams of coco tears. She spat the brown goo out into a plate beside her.

What am I doing?

She swung her legs round. Her head fell heavily into a pair of cupped hands.

It might have been the excessive amount of chocolate, it might have been the embarrassment, the shame, the regret but Sydney felt sick. Why had she been so desperate, why had she called him? Why hadn’t she thought it through? Why hadn’t she prepared what to say? Why had she let it go silent? Why had she embarrassed herself? Why did always she have to look like an asshole? WHY ARE YOU SUCH A FUCKING ASSHOLE?

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!

Three stubby knocks disrupted the scream. Could it be …?

“What’s going on there?”

It couldn’t. Sydney opened the door.

“Nothing Mr. Winkler, go back to bed.”

Old Mr. Winkler peeked round the open door – Sydney stuffed her body into the doorway, obstructing his view. His suspicious wrinkly eyes attempted to pierce through the wood. Whenever Sydney made any sort of noise Mr. Winkler would be there. When she smashed her new vase, when she slammed the bathroom door, when she fell against the wall after a failed yoga routine – Mr. Winkler would be there. Funnily enough, Sydney could easily put the man out of his misery. She could let him in, give him a tour, convince him that she was alright but instead she gave him as little information as possible and Winkler’s imagination constructed scenes of crack dens, naked prostitutes, cult orgies. It was terribly annoying and secretly amusing.

“Goodbye Mr. Winkler.”

Mr. Winkler grunted and shuffled back to his apartment.

Sydney peered through the peephole. In times of serious mistrust, Mr. Winkler would appear to enter his apartment when in actual fact he would sit down on a chair in the corridor, listening, looking for any wrongdoings. But tonight he shuffled through his doorway and closed the door.

Sydney sighed and walked over to her window, lifted it and climbed out onto the fire escape. Her windowpane resembled a well-laid table, with cigarettes, a lighter and an ashtray spread out in the way they were always spread out; ashtray in the middle, cigarettes on the left facing the street, lighter on the right facing the apartment. A wet wind greeted her as she rested her legs on the iron. She huddled the lighter, who was also known as Bob. Bob was shaped quit handsomely, all body but no head, his plastic bulge covered by a tight loincloth. It had been a silly present from her sister for her twenty-second birthday. It never failed to make her smile but Bob was being difficult tonight. Sydney lit and lit and lit, but Bob’s headless form refused to produce a fire. She wanted to hurl the lighter down to the street but a stubborn flame popped up. Quickly, she brought her cigarette to it and inhaled sharply.

A black SUV cruised down below, hip hop music bellowed through he street, “Aaaaall you bitches know.” Poor Mr. Winkler. Sydney wondered how he was going to call the cops with his hands stuck to his ears.

The wet wind disintegrated into drops of rain, lightly falling down on the busy streets below. She looked up at the inky sky. Tomorrow – wedding day. She had asked several people for advice. Should she go? Her sister didn’t think so, her best friend thought she should make a quick appearance, at the reception, her boss told her to go and look fabulous. She liked the last idea the most. But her sister’s: you’re-only-trying-to-hurt-yourself-by-going-to-this-wedding’s monologue rang in her ear. She wouldn’t listen to it, she never listened to her sister, why now? There was only one thing that she needed be thinking about:

“What am I going to wear?”

Sydney wasn’t a fashionable type. Her first New York apartment had been in Soho, located round the corner from the Chanel store, a fashionista’s Mecca but Syndey fled after a week. The clone-like women in leather boots, the dogs in prams, the metrosexual men, it was like living in a very well-dressed zombie movie. After finding a replacement tenant, she ran straight into the arms of the eclectic, dreadlock wearing crowd of the East Village.

Her sister was different, her sister knew how to impress, her sister new how to make her butt look less gigantic and her hips more defined. Of course, dressing up was a big part of their upbringing. Before a family outing or a special occasion the Fogel sisters carefully walked down the stairs, hoping what they wore would meet their mothers approving nod and if not, if they received a “tusk” or an eye roll, they would turn around like whipped dogs, tails tucked in between their legs, back to the wardrobe. When one of the sisters had succeeded and the other one hadn’t, the walk up the stairs was that much worse.

With every nicotine rush, a potential wedding outfit swooshed through Sydney’s mind. There was her nice black suit, the showy red dress, the trendy skirt and shirt combo. What had Cosmo told her at the dentist the other: “what are your clothes saying about you?”

Alright, a list of things her outfit was trying to say:

1) Congratulations
2) I’m just so happy for you!
3) Look what you missed out on
4) I really don’t care
5) Fuck you.

The list of outfit justifications evaporated as rain fell down in thicker droplets soaking her through. The cigarette flopped out of her mouth, falling between the gaps in the iron, down to the next fire escape. Through the thick sheets of rain a dog’s howl echoed, bouncing between brick walls. Sydney took a deep breath and howled back.