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Summary
The street is littered with green leaves and tiny rosy florets, and in the long summer months, she likes to come home and hang from her knees off the lower branches, even when insects come out and get everywhere. The ordinariness of the building of it is what made her choose it; walls covered in mosses and too many motorcycles out front, a short linen couch where she can watch her shitty shows once a week.
This house was the only thing she ever used her court settlement money on.
Trinity takes the stone stairs two at a time, her hand on her house keys. “I live on the third floor,” she says, by way of explanation, as she turns over a shoulder.
Yolanda is framed in the florets as she makes her way up; she is only in a cream tank, which stands out on the smooth brown of her skin. “I like it,” she says, in that same ever even tone. “I think I might like it more on the inside.”
(or. in a long summer, they finally get together. well, sort of.)