𝔫𝔬𝔳𝔬𝔠𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔰.

         there’s nothing extraordinary about an obsession with appearances. with little to do in town, and fewer people still to do anything with, gossip runs rampant. envy is the name of the game, and everyone wants a winning piece. but not everyone can manage it all, even with the cost of living far below either coastline. if you’re not born into it, you have to take it. or, in better cases, you manage both. alan chooses to leave these things to his parents and sister. appearances never mattered to him — not unless he’s tarnishing them.

         ❝ i wouldn’t say slobs, ❞ he starts, eyes skittering across the all but spotless bedroom and before making their way to the woman in question. is this an invitation? her husband isn’t home… he leans against the doorway, looking her up and down. ❝ but i could guess your husband has made you… compromise on a few things. ❞ nobody respectable has a television in their bedroom ( or so he hears ) — it has certain… implications. ❝ something tells me the tv isn’t the only thing you’re compromising on, either. ❞

ever since barbara was young, she’d felt the need to write everything down—what she is supposed to feel; what she’s supposed to say; like or dislike. she could’ve filled notebooks, front to back, with the person she’d created. but instead of offering tangible proof of her abnormality, barbara relies on memory alone. and after years of living beneath that very mask, it has begun to stitch itself to her skin. IT’S STILL NOT HER—who exists in the space of others; offering kind words and warm smiles (never quite reaching the eyes), but it’s somebody she knows. well enough to imitate at least. and like she would a character in a short story, barbara ponders the ways to make her life more interesting. barbara-jean wiley would never be caught in her bedroom, alone and with another man. except for that one time she did. 

        does he need to check upstairs? no, not particularly. doesn’t even need the extra money continuing to snoop around gives him. doesn’t need money in general. but this gives him a chance to wander. if she doesn’t follow, he might even get a good look around. doesn’t care much if he doesn’t. he has other windows he can look through. curiously enough, she barely gives him a moment to recognize the instructions before offering to lead him up, herself. there goes the snooping around plans. now he actually has to do the job he’s been hired for. or pretend to, at any rate.

        not that he even needs directions to begin with. her house is less than extravagant. in this part of the world, hardly even expensive. but it’s nicer than most of the properties that litter their seedy little town, and proves that she’s burdened a sucker with a real job on his hands. shrugging a shoulder, he lets her take the lead. ❝ sure, i’ll be right behind you. ❞ maybe get a good look at her ass, if nothing else.

barbara had a perverse obsession with image. how she looked rather than how she was. how people perceived her rather than how she might perceive them. because despite all—socialising and top dollar spent on appearance, she didn’t much care for people. let alone their opinions on her. she wanted envy, not friendships. and it was that desired jealousy that acted the driving force in all that she was. backed not by insecurities but a need for control. it did not matter how big she was if there was no one else around to feel small in comparison.

          ❛     you must think of us as slobs—what with a television in here and all.     ❜

sitting down at the foot of their bed, barbara watches idly as the man takes in the room. she didn’t really have a strong opinion on the matter—it wasn’t visually pleasing, no, but it was a small price to pay for her husband’s compliance. give him an inch, withhold the mile.

          @novocaines· ( for barbara !! )

if there’s one thing being incapable of holding down a job has given him ( other than a bad reputation ) its knowledge. a few months as a mechanic gave him the means to fix up most problems a car could have. his month and a half as what amounted to paid intern as an electrician gave him the ability to do a few odd jobs around town for lower rates than average. could he promise it would work as intended? no. but his success rate was good enough. or rather, good enough for anyone who actually called him.

         ❝ well, ❞ he starts, slinking back into the main entryway. ❝ it looks like i got it working, but i should probably take a look upstairs. just to be sure. ❞

barbara thinks no one else is as bored as she is. or so isolated :     dependent on others for entertainment, and to stimulate a brain on overdrive. it’s why she’s in the studio, out with friends, at the gym, running errands—always, always, always… and rarely alone. it’s ironic. because as much as she needs people to fill her afternoons, she also finds disgust in their company. maybe in new york, san francisco, or even seattle, would she discover exhilarating conversation. but not here. not in bum - fuck oklahoma where she makes do—using her husband’s credit card to pay for channels she doesn’t need on a television she doesn’t watch. 

❛     ——     of course. whatever you need…     ❜     you only get paid by the hour.     ❛     master bedroom’s the second door to your left.     ❜

their house isn’t extravagant by any means. sure, it has everything that barbara had asked for—proceeded by a hefty mortgage to which she barely contributes. four bedrooms :    main, guest, and the rest occupied by wishful thinking. a kitchen recently renovated, two living rooms, and an office. the two and a half baths a given. yet it’s considered adequate, not huge. not to her standards anyway. and not spacious enough to justify more than simple direction. but she is bored.