In the second drawer of her rosewood table, there were exactly thirty-nine tubes of lipstick. None of them, however, were the same shade as the mark on the left side of his white collared button down. It was a unique shade – a fuchsia with hints of cool purple – that clashed with her skin tone. Naturally, she steered clear of any color of that family.
Rather productive day today! I cleaned my room and it is now very organized and neat. I threw away lots of clothes and packed most of my books. I finally realized how big my desk is since I can finally see the bottom of it. Did some mini renovation and moving around. All in all, I am quite prooud of myself.
It was two a.m. in the morning and she was in no mood to deal with whomever or whatever was messing with the doorbell of her quaint brownstone house. Not wanting to trouble her elderly grandfather into opening the door, Maven rolled out of the comfort of her bed and made her way downstairs. By the time she had reached halfway down the stairs, the ringings subdued and her grandfather was standing speaking with a tall, young man clad in a shady black suit and a pair of shades. Their voices were low – hushed, almost – and her grandfather seemed to speaking in a frivolous manner. There was a brief exchange between the two; her grandfather handing the man thick manila envelope for a pair of silver-and-gold keys.
Before either of the two could take notice of her, Maven retreated back to her room. From her window, she had perfect view of the stranger driving away in a nifty white sports-car she vaguely identified as a Maserati MC Stradale.
The next morning, her grandfather had rushed her to the breakfast table before she had even gotten the chance to give herself a second look in the mirror.
“What is it?” she asked taking a sip of the milk her grandfather had already set on the table for her. It was uncharacteristic of him to look so worrisome; but then again, for the past week, he often did things in a frenetic way.
His usually chirpy voice was now laced with uneasiness. “Maven,” he began, his blue eyes staring an intimidating hole through her bistre orbs, “I’ve treated you as my own granddaughter for the past seventeen years, yes?” Maven nodded. “No matter happens to me, keep this key.” He laid the piece of silver on the table. “And guard it with your life.”
Her eyes widened at the last sentence. Before she could even open her mouth to speak, the man threw on his fedora and grabbed his coat along with his briefcase. “I will see you tonight at the show, then,” he said, fixing his bow tie. “Remember, it’s at seven-thirty.”