#ruby mathews

A mighty groan spilling from your lips was routinely how you’d begin your day, prowling out of bed with a blear in your eye as you made your way to the kitchen.

With pulled brows in the beaming direction of the sunrise, your awakening hands would mundanely start sufficiently preparing your coffee or tea, just a dribble of milk and a few granulated spoonfuls of sugar.

If you had time to spare afterward, you’d end up passively watching a program on the television while you contentedly munching on your breakfast.

Then, you’d get properly equipped for compulsory school; the sex school of flaccid penises and vaginas where willing people would shag in a gutted bathroom and trade sex advice when they couldn't make their partner come.

When your digits would curl into your untamed tufts you experienced an overwhelming wave of fatigue glue onto your skull at the copious amount of effort.

Dressing fashionably and doing your hair in differentiating styles always felt complete to your look as soon as the academic year had begun, but not a prime necessity as you were on campus with a horde of vexing, titillated teenagers where it was irrevocably bound to be ruined by the second quarter.

Although your girlfriend felt otherwise.

Polished shoes, luxury handbags, designer clothes; Ruby felt as if the school was her own Paris Fashion week where Kim Kardashian would personally ask her for valuable advice on this upcoming season's prevailing fashion and trends.

Something mundane to her everyday routine, early awakening and painting the slim definitions of her aglow cheeks in contours in blushes as if it was the official Met Gala and fluttering fake lashes clung to her lash line that would nearly recoil in the wind like gaudy butterflies if the wind gust had bidden a bit too strong.

So in compromise with your dear girlfriend you’d slip on your most charming skirt, add a minuscule more makeup than you ordinarily did, and style up your hair to pristine effort; but, at any point when you had gotten languid throughout the day, you’d disregard all formalities and brush all of your perspiring tufts and locks back into a clip.

You had opted for your style for the day as you had woken up late due to diligently studying for Biology till nearing dawn and felt as though it was a test day, there wasn't much to dress up for.

Your hair was natural for the day, the cut and style carefully framed the delicate bones of your plump cheeks and your nape felt shielded from your locks.

A dull blush was painted on said cheekbones and an ordinary flick of liner that was carefully shaded into your crease and decorated your primed eyelids. Your lips were glossed over in chapstick — the skin of your lips kept healthy after the storming season of drying and visible cracks had undoubtedly passed.

The material of your top was a milky-ivory shade, with the ample sleeves dyed in a baby blue, similar to the unclouded sky on a pleasant summer day. Your jeans were raw denim, a light wash that hemmed at the mid-waist and flared out near the bottom of your ankle. Instead of a booted heel, a pair of onyx converse with embroidered designs from the years encapsulated your feet.

Invariably hearing a blaring honk from the driveway you deemed your modest outfit quite fitting for the day — eagerly snatching the navy blue bag with a spillage of papers drooping from the sides of the zippers and striding over to the magenta car where Ruby had stood with her heel pressed into the leather disk where the horn symbol resided.

“Are you wearing your simple clothes again? You know, you can always borrow my stuff if you’re not feeling yours.” With an arched brow, she strategically placed her bottom into the left side of the car as you had unfastened the bright-toned door.

Your shoulders pulled into an expressive shrug once you were finally sat, “Simple clothes for a simple day.”

“But you’re around me all day, henceforth it physically cannot be a simple day. We’re girlfriends and that makes us better than everyone else. Therefore, we need to let everyone know we are better than them.” The girl practically huffed, her polished nails slightly colliding with the wheel as she promptly drove.

“Right, Rubes, my bad.” A distorted giggle escaped with difficulty from your throat at her aplomb.

…

“I cannot believe this woman. That grotesque, ill-favored, monstrous woman with that nauseating, greasy side part and uncolored roots genuinely wants to take away our right to dress as we please! Babes, I bought so many new outfits for the term and I even redesigned your wardrobe! This all feels like a complete waste.” The brunet all but fiercely screams at the front of the school with a shrill whine instantly following, her manicured fingers squirming around to progressively extend her point.

Ruby frantically begins to wildly gesture to her outfit. She's wearing a tied-up violet blouse that's sheer, with a matching tank top underneath. Her pants are denim, painted in differentiating patterns of dull purples, and her back pockets are delicately hemmed with intricate patterns and unique designs.

It’s when the delicate pads of your fingertips brush at her lower back and your chin hooks onto her covered shoulder, she ultimately regains a well-needed breath from her boisterous rant.

“Rubes, relax,” You croon softly while gently sweeping your thumb against the granulated material of her violet sheen coat. “You know we can always hem the kilts, and accessorize the top with something because you’re like a fashion goddess. There's always a way to wean your way around the new dress code, and we can figure that out, but first, you need to breathe.”

“Yeah, you’re right. You’re right, I am a fashion goddess, I can totally make it work.” Her brow arches in patient compliance with your kind words.

It’s hushed for a moment, the inhales of Ruby’s breath become slow and relaxed before Anwar chides across from you both in feigning annoyance, “Oh, so you can calm her down and we can’t? Now, that’s just unfair.”

…

Ruby's ached throat is burning as she's nearly out of breath whilst she speaks, “I cannot just believe Adam Groff just threw a— a poo at that French man! God, this trip is so repulsive. We should’ve just went to the Eiffel Tower instead!” A remaining number of pants hoarsely escape her brawny throat.

You lamely conceal a chortle at her severe chastising, your head weaseling into the bend of her expensively fragrant neck as she's sat next to you with her body facing forward.

“Yeah he definitely should’ve held it in,” You muffle your chortle into her grey blazer. “Plus I think it was Rahim, I saw him sockless.” Your voice instantly drops into a hushed octave at the comical gossip as her head bobs rapidly towards you.