LOVE SHACK (open)

[SELENA IANTHE KOZMA]

Lena could not be considered fashionable by any stretch of the word. In no slanted light could her unstylish outfits be deemed appropriate for their setting – she wore heels, yes, but twenty dollar heels from the aisles of target, and only on the various court dates that had piled up within her student locker. Generally speaking, sweatpants were her god of worship. She rarely bothered with extensive makeup, and plucked her eyebrows only because Hector insisted, and Hector's word was her code of conduct. He did, after all, know best. Especially when it came to the ways in which a lady should act, the majority of which she disregarded too regularly to say she even acknowledged, but tonight, all rules applied. Because tonight, she was going out.

Scrounged from the back of her closet and placed around her neck, a scarf contraption served as a shirt, a tank top as a skirt (shimmied gracefully down the curves of her hips) and said pair of target heels hung off the back of her feet, following her around like a ball and chain whenever she decided to stop her insane pursuit of perfection.

Brigitte Bardot languorously murmured the words to yet another of her crooning, delicate, fantastical songs in the background, and Lena applied one, two, three layers of mascara before she was satisfied with the long, thick lashes that had sprouted suddenly when before there had been none. Too smoothly, she lifted the permanent present wineglass to her lips, watching her throat bob in the mirror as she swallowed the liquid. She was immune to the burn that plagued so many novice drinkers, practiced and accurate in her heavy alcohol consumption. She cheered, following the ending of the song, and lifted the glass once more to drink in celebration. Perhaps she'd won the habit from her delicate, poised mother. That indeed would explain the aristocratic flick of her wrist as she set it back down, lips curling in response to the feeling of eyes – even her own – on her mouth.

She left the house precisely thirty minutes later, never bothering to admit to punctuality despite firmly practicing it.

Love shack was playing as she skirted around the exterior of the club, her hips tossing lightly back and forth, various stages of amused smile spilling over her lips. A lack of conformity and stagnance in her life growing up led her to yearn desperately for similar behaviors in the social situations she subjected herself to, and perhaps that was the ultimate reason behind her wanton ways; never would she subject her own children to herself, if she saw herself in the super market and was blessed with the handy ability to rectify any situation. Unfortunately, she was eternally doomed to reside in the awkward stages between partying teenager and overly excited adult – she was bound, she was sure, and no one could convince her otherwise. Not even her professors, who so readily would attest to the gentleness and carefulness she exhibited in the medical settings she'd thus far been subjected to, could manage to persuade her that she wasn't actually a lost cause. Should she choose to believe it, she could be anything, and this burden was perhaps the only she carried regularly on her narrow, strong shoulders.

So as the voice greeted her, unattached, floating about happily, she turned only slightly. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips, brown eyes beaming behind the fringe of long, dark lashes that characterized the Kozma family. “Yes, darling?” and her straw was poked between her lips, sucking the sugary concoction into her teeth and chuckling as she shivered, “What can I help you with?”

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