kajsa ㅇㅅㅇ

The door to the Lysenkos’ apartment swung open. Ana’s keys jangled in the lock. 

Soft light from the hallway cast a gentle silhouette of her figure on the floor as she stumbled blearily inside–her dance bag slung over her shoulder, and worn, faded pointe shoes hanging from the opposite hand. She wrenched her keys out of the knob, cringing at the sound of metal scraping against itself, then closed and deadbolted the door behind her, hardly thinking about the motions.

Her bag hit the floor as she shuffled toward the fridge. After a brief tussle with its contents, Ana found a cup of instant noodles and stuffed it in the microwave. She reached up, wrestling her hair out of its hairspray-caked bun; the blonde strands fell down over her arms, stiff and dry. She let her slippers fall to the ground so she could massage her aching scalp as she watched the cup of noodles spin around inside the little humming appliance. 

The light inside was dim and orange, flickering wearily over the plastic cup, and the turntable reminded her of her turnboard–which reminded her that she had to practice her fouettés.

The door to the Lysenkos’ apartment swung open, Ana’s keys jangling noisily in the lock. 

Soft light from the hallway cast her silhouette on the floor as she stumbled blearily inside, her dance bag slung over her shoulder, and worn, faded pointe shoes hanging from the opposite hand. She wrenched her keys out of the knob, cringing at the scraping of metal, then closed and deadbolted the door behind her without thinking much of the motions.

Her bag hit the floor with a soft thud as she shuffled inside, toward the kitchen. Wrenching off her shoes, she crossed to the fridge, where, after a brief tussle with its contents, she procured a cup of instant noodles which she filled with water and stuffed into the microwave. The soft, radioactive hum of the machine broke the apartment’s dark, quiet stillness. 

The city had slowed outside, now rarely coming close enough for Ana to hear the cacophony. Sirens, squealing brakes, and sometimes shouts crept through the cracks around the windows during the day, but all were a part of the ever-rambling environment of city life. It got quiet around midnight, as it was doing now, leaving an exhausted kind of reverie in its wake. The noise would pick up again around four that morning, revived only by the necessity of those who upkept it. 

Reaching up to wrestle her hair out of its hairspray-caked bun, Ana let her slippers fall to the linoleum beneath her. Her scalp ached in protest as she tugged her hair out of the pins and the ponytail, running her fingers through its length. Long, white-blonde strands tumbled down over her arms, stiff and dry from the day’s work. 

The microwave continued its dutiful hum as she leaned against the counter, forehead pressed to the machine’s warmish glass. The light inside was dim and orange, flickering wearily over the plastic cup; the turntable on which it spun reminded her vaguely of her turnboard, the image of which prompted her to practice her fouettés when she had the time. 

A yawn rose in her chest, which she pushed down only after a great effort.