Yaena does not belong here, she’s fully aware of the fact: she can’t find a way neither to blend in with the locals, nor to become more sociable– earn their trust, let them get to know her better; this is a rather small (compared to New York) particularly… peculiar city, (understatement of the century), an even more peculiar, rather… strange, neighborhood, compared to elite, rather inaccessible Lake Oswego — the kind where everyone knows each other, and she, a stranger, in every sense of the word: detached and aloof, she’s always just out of reach, unapproachable, uninterested in either any gossip or the local news, always by herself, unassuming, shrouded in mystery. Holed up in her secluded, half a century old villa near the woods, away from the life from the city, she spends her days working from home and renovating her kitchen and gardens, or going on the occasional walk with her dog– an enormous, old Irish wolfhound that trails after her like a cat– her nights, staring at the moon in a vintage peignoir, listening to les Baxter and debating whether or not to disappear and move to Nepal. She does not mean to come off as standoffish, or, a snob; it’s just the way in which she’s always presented herself, pristine, poised, elegant– a languid, haughty quality in the way she interacts with people around her, ever quiet, enigmatic, mysterious– it is no surprise, then, that she’s attracting quite the attention today, either, as she leisurely strolls down the hiking trails of Champoeg State in her silk skirt and vintage crop top, Versace shades perched atop her messy, loose curls cascading down her slender back, vintage, thrifted Louis Vuitton handbag draped over her bare shoulder. Mister is towering over her petite frame as she urges him to follow her toward the sea– they’re quite the sight, she, the mystery girl from the big city– in her designer outfit and All Stars– and the giant dog at her side– ; there are people all around them, enjoying the cool breeze coming off the lake and the fields beyond the woods, lavender and lilac, the late evening sun, all red and gold and purple, streaming over them as it sets, and she’s about to make her way toward the little stairs near a pond to rest for a while and give Mister a few treats for being such a nice, obedient boy throughout their walk, when Mister unexpectedly tugs at his leash and makes to excitedly run off toward the person nearest the pond, and she’s taken aback, gasping as he more or less drags her along; rosy cheeked and flustered, she’s hastily grabbing at his leash and trying to pull him back toward her gently, trilling a shocked little “Mister– no!!” as she struggles to reign him in a bit, fearing for the worse— she’s breathless by the time she manages to calm her dog down a little, her blue eyes, bright and liquid with sunlight; her mouth is stained red, cherries and rouge lipstick (her own brand, of course). “Apologies!!” she’s offering elegantly, a detached tone in the husky quality of her voice, “I don’t know what’s gotten into him, he’s normally not like… This.”
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