Leaning against her convertible, Pietà lights her cigarette, conscious of the ‘NO SMOKING’ sign across from her. The red paint glares at her, furious at her blatant disregard, but Pietà merely puffs away as she examines the ebb and flow of foot traffic.
One passerby coughs. Another covers the lower half of their face with their sleeves. The third person narrows their eyes at her in disdain, making the space between their brows wrinkle. All other passersby are an amalgamation of the first three.
Pietà holds her cigarette between her teeth — ivory white through cosmetics — and gives a quick delighted clap.
How quaint Americans are! How fascinating!
She laughs softly to herself as she sucks the butt of the cigarette. She savors the burn of the tobacco as it dives into the depths of her tainted lungs, worships the transaction of molecules as relief greedily fills her veins, and then bids it adieu when she exhales the smoke.
Pietà creates a series of rings, then shoots a ball through all of them. A child passing by coos in awe and a stray teenager’s eyes widen.
For both, she has become an origin story.
However, the reactions of strangers have lost their allure. Pietà’s eyes crawl across the dingy sidewalk, mauled by chewing gum and spilled drinks, and roam up the studio building .
Inside, the light of her life is rehearsing with her bandmates. No doubt crafting yet another hypnotic guitar solo or piecing together a mesmerizing set of lyrics. Pietà looks forward to dousing the artist with an appropriate amount of presents of appropriate quality./
Augusta Pierce deserves nothing but the best — partially for being Pietà’s best friend and mainly for being the best member of the band ‘Siren’s Echo.’
Pietà flashes her watch, checking the time. At any second, Augusta will stroll between the twin doors of the studio entrance, guitar slung across her back, and amble down to Pietà with a cool smile crossing her face.
Words will dance on her tongue at how rehearsal went. Augusta will give Pietà insider details, as best friends are privileged to, as she ransacks the compartment in the passenger seat of the car for beef jerky.
Only yankees eat that junk, but Augusta is Pietà’s favorite American so Pietà will keep stock.
The base of Pietà’s spine tingles with excitement when a familiar head passes through the front door, swarmed by other people as usual, but no matter — Augusta will separate from them once she spies Pietà.
Augusta’s green eyes sweep over the parking lot. They make contact with Pietà’s hazel.
Her face shutters closed.
Were Pietà a dog, her tail would be wagging.
Pietà’s smile grows wicked as she watches Augusta fend off concern. Augusta clenches her fists as she recalibrates, visibly swallowing back vitriol. Her jaw is tight. Were she less disciplined, she would have lashed out.
Pietà did not warn Augusta of her sudden appearance.
After all, spontaneity is of the youth. She and Augusta, thirty and thirty-three respectively, are very young.
“Augusta!” Pietà calls, waving a bony arm at Augusta, who disengages from her motley crew at a heroic speed. “Over here!”
Pietà adjusts her glasses. She narrows her eyes to see better and reads the lips of the group.
Who is that? One asks.
Is she your girlfriend? Another questions.
Just a friend, Augusta replies, laughing. She rubs the back of her neck, sheepish, though the tension in her jaw is unmistakable. Catch you guys later!
Without waiting for a response, Augusta storms down to Pietà. The wind sends her dirty-blonde hair flying, and she’s a Valkyrie with her tank top, ripped jeans, and combat boots. Her guitar, sheathed in its case, is her weapon of choice.
Despite being full of righteous fury, as indicated by her clenched fists, tense jaw, and flared nostrils, Augusta’s cheeks lack color. She’s a rainbow that had forgotten what made it so special.
“Didn’t expect to see ‘ya here,” Augusta says, swinging an arm around Pietà’s shoulders. Her voice is brittle like dry twigs scraping against pavement. “Thought I was gonna have to take the subway back to my place, but instead, I have a chauffeur.”
She extends her other hand to wave goodbye to her bandmates. They turn away.
“I figured that you would enjoy the comfort and space of a car more,” Pietà says, leaning into Augusta’s candy-sweet touch even as Augusta withdraws. Augusta places a firm hand on Pietà’s shoulder to stop Pietà from falling over in her quest for physical contact.
Augusta walks behind the convertible and lifts up the trunk door. She gently places her guitar inside before closing it with equal care.
However, now that there are no more prying eyes, Augusta no longer needs to put on a show.
While Pietà carefully slips into her driver seat, mindful of the pole scant millimeters away, Augusta yanks the door to the passenger side open, flings herself on the seat, then slams the door shut. The convertible shudders from the force.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Augusta snarls. Her eyes are bloodshot with sleep deprivation and her lips are chapped to the point of being flaky.
“Picking you up,” Pietà replies easily. She huffs the cigarette and blows it into Augusta’s face, aiming for Augusta’s eyes.
Augusta coughs, glaring at Pietà. She waves away the smoke, but it has nowhere to go. The car’s windows are rolled up.
Once Augusta’s coughing subsides, Pietà removes her cigarette and slots it between Augusta’s lips. “I’m not going to let you take the subway back to your apartment when I could easily treat you to a meal, then give you a ride back.”
Augusta’s stomach growls at the very mention of food. She slouches in her seat like a child and sucks the cigarette, inhaling and exhaling periodically, filling the car even more with cancerous fumes.
“Where are we eating?” She opens the compartment in front of her and rummages for beef jerky like a monkey rooting through its companions’ fur for lice to eat.
Pietà flicks on the air conditioner, adding cold air to the mix. “I was thinking about the bistro we went to last week. Or perhaps Greek. I think a lamb gyro would be very nice.”
“As long as you don’t order me pork again, anything sounds good,” Augusta says.
She victoriously pulls a stick of beef jerky out, takes a savage bite, then lowers the window to blow out smoke. She balances eating and smoking effortlessly.
Pietà wrinkles her nose. She clicks her tongue. “The air conditioner is on. Don’t do that.”
“Cry me a river,” Augusta says, rolling her eyes. But she still obeys, closing the window. “Actually, I changed my mind. I want fast food. I’m not dressed right for somewhere fancy anyway.”
“I thought you might use that excuse, so I brought a spare change of clothes,” Pietà chimes. She reverses out of the parking spot and enters the road, narrowly avoiding a biker, who shouts in surprise at the car’s presence. “They’re in the back.”
“You went through my apartment again?” Augusta’s lips curl as goosebumps crawl across her skin. “You freak.”
“No need to be so cruel, I’m only looking out for you,” Pietà says. “I won’t let you clog your arteries with such disgusting food.”
“Don’t treat me like a child,” Augusta barks as her patience snaps. Words emerge from her mouth, senseless and cruel. “I should just open the door and fall out. Anything to get away from you.”
“Health care is too expensive for you to do that,” Pietà sighs as she weaves between other cars, intent on entering the highway as soon as possible. “You’d ruin your beautiful skin — your beautiful face. Who would want you then? Other than me, of course.”
“Shut up.”
“Would Siren’s Echo really allow someone disfigured to be the frontman? People are superficial, after all. They wouldn’t want you anymore. But perhaps that’s a better alternative to leaking those videos,” Pietà muses. “At least by harming yourself, you’d be at fault. But wait — aren’t you also the reason why those videos are so dangerous?”
“I said shut up!” Augusta roars. Her head pulses.
For a moment, she sees herself. Sitting shotgun, puffing the cigarette to a nub, clutching her knobby knees while she glares at Pietà with those bloodshot eyes of hers. Augusta’s hair is frazzled from stress and the space beneath her eyes is dark.
Then, like a rubber band snapping, Augusta is back in her body. Fury rolls in her chest, sticky. She spits the cigarette into the ashtray and extinguishes it, ignoring how her calloused fingers catch in the steaming embers.
“So rude,” Pietà repeats. But instead of her tone being mocking like usual, it's thin like a sheet of paper. “You’re so rude.”
Augusta groans. She grinds the heel of her palm against her eye, willing the incoming headache to go away. “Are you seriously upset now?”
“No,” Pietà says petulantly. “I’m not.”
She tightens her grip on the steering wheel. “I just think you’ve very ungrateful for someone who’s been the recipient of several gifts and is about to be treated to a delicious meal. I could have allowed you to brave the subway, but I didn’t because I care about you. And you reward me with poor behavior.”
“I never asked you to do any of that,” Augusta bursts. “The only thing I’d ask of you is to drop dead.”
Pietà gasps. It’s sharp and small like a dagger.
“Drop dead,” she mouths to herself. Then thunders. “Drop dead! You, Augusta Pierce, are the cruelest person I’ve ever known!”
She slams her foot on the gas pedal. Augusta goes lurching forward. Had she not had the foresight to place her hands on the headboard, she’d have collided face-first with it and triggered the airbag.
“Slow down,” Augusta yelps as Pietà zips past a car, then another, as she ping-pongs between the lanes of the highway. “You’re going too fast.”
“All I ask, in exchange for not ruining you, is friendship. And you can’t even afford me basic decency,” Pietà continues. Her voice is wobbly.
Augusta glances at her quickly. To her dismay, Pietà’s eyes glisten with tears and the tip of her usually-pale nose has begun to redden. “Don’t cry. I hate it when people cry. Especially women.”
“You make everything about you,” Pietà hiccups. “You upset me, but all you can focus on is your own comfort.”
“You’re just a crybaby,” Augusta retorts. She swears as a series of cars begin to honk at them. “Shit, slow down!”
“Don’t call me that!” Pietà shrieks. “I’m not a crybaby, I’m not!”
“SLOW DOWN!” Augusta roars as the convertible takes out the side mirror of a neighboring car.
She isn’t sure where they’re going at this point. Any exit to any familiar destination has long disappeared. She’s stranded in a convertible with a despairing driver, and Augusta thinks she’s going to be sick.
Her head is pulsing with a migraine, her chest rolls with fury, and her stomach is laden with the usual anxiety of being near Pietà and a new, crippling fear. Her hands tremble. Augusta clenches her jaw to prevent her teeth from chattering.
Pietà always drives fast.
They’ll be fine.
“DON’T SHOUT AT ME!” Pietà screeches as she swerves towards oncoming traffic.
On instinct, Augusta grapples for the steering wheel, attempting to twist it so the convertible returns to the correct lane. But Pietà, for being as thin as a stick, is strong.
“We’re gonna crash,” Augusta shrieks. “Stop — just give me the fucking wheel.”
“Then let us crash!” Pietà cries. “It’d be preferable than spending another second with you.”
The lights of oncoming traffic grow larger and larger. The honks grow louder and louder. Pietà and Augusta are approaching closer and closer.
Augusta's life doesn’t flash before her eyes, but desperation bursts in her chest like a supernova, and words erupt from her mouth like lava. “I’m sorry for raising my voice at you and I’m sorry for calling you a crybaby and I’m sorry for not giving you what you want but please place us on the right lane. Please, Pietà. Please, please, please, please — “
The car swerves. Augusta’s head slams against the window, but she doesn’t register the pain. All she can feel is pure relief coursing through her veins. Euphoric. Addicting.
“You’re welcome,” Pietà slows down to an acceptable speed, merging with the traffic perfectly. She sniffs. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Not hard at all,” Augusta marvels. She releases a laugh of disbelief. Her heart is still thudding in her chest, she’s still shaking, and her head is about to split in half, but she’s alive. “You’re such a bitch.”
“Didn’t learn your lesson, did you?”
“No, I didn’t mean it!” Augusta yelps. “You’re great, you’re phenomenal. Just… take us back to my place.”
“With pleasure.”
With little fanfare, they return to Augusta’s apartment, which lies in an affluent area of New York City. It’s gated, but Pietà has obtained a copy of the keycard to enter the community. Illegally, of course.
By the time they’re in the parking garage, Augusta’s nails have been gnawed down to red nubs — the stick of beef jerky has disappeared deep into her belly and all was left to chew were her nails.
Pietà leaves the extra set of Augusta’s clothes in the backseat of her car. Augusta fetches her guitar, refusing to allow Pietà to even breathe upon it.
Together, they enter the apartment complex, suffer through elevator music during their ascent, and make it to Augusta’s apartment.
“Home sweet home,” Pietà cheers as she unlocks Augusta’s front door with a set of keys that were duplicated without Augusta’s permission. She kicks off her shoes and darts to the kitchen. She flits around, peering through the cupboards like a curious fairy. “No food again?”
“Why get groceries when I can just order something?” Augusta responds. She sets her guitar in its special place on the floor and throws herself onto the couch. She flings off her shoes and groans as her joints pop.
Age. It’s settling in.
Pietà pouts. “We should have just gone to the bistro then. I think you’d really enjoy the tartare beef.”
“Is it also raw?” Augusta asks, narrowing her eyes. “The steak last time was edible, but I swore it was still mooing.”
"You have no taste. How can you enjoy eating your jerky, but not decent French food?”
“I enjoy food that’s cooked,” Augusta replies, miffed. “Not food that is still bleating. Let’s just get takeout. Chinese?”
“If you insist,” Pietà sighs. “I suppose I can handle undercooked noodles.”
“You learn to love the crunch.”
Pulling out her phone, Augusta quickly orders the same thing she and Pietà had gotten last time. The fuss Pietà had thrown was relatively small, indicating she wasn’t as opposed to the food as she claimed to be.
After the incident on the highway, Augusta isn’t keen on entering a car again.
Once payment has been processed, Augusta switches apps to request the money from Pietà, but a notification interrupts her. Pietà already paid for it.
“How did you — “ Augusta’s head swivels to look at Pietà back in the kitchen, but her nose grazes against the tip of Pietà’s instead. Augusta lurches back. “Shit! You need to stop doing that. You’ll give me a heart attack one of these days.”
Pietà chuckles. She leans away, having gotten her fill of looking over Augusta’s shoulder, and climbs onto the couch. She scoots next to Augusta until their arms are pressed together.
“Personal space,” Augusta grunts as she leans forward to grab the television remote off the coffee table.
After switching the television on to a recorded soccer match she missed due to the rehearsal, Augusta swipes a cigarette from the carton and places it between her lips. Pietà snatches her own cigarette and leans towards Augusta.
The tips of their cigarettes kiss. Pietà ignites her zippo and lights both cigarettes at the same time. Red bursts at the tips. Pietà extinguishes the light but doesn’t lean back.
“Personal space,” Augusta repeats, pulling away. She inhales slowly, not in a rush to finish her cigarette, and blows it in Pietà’s face. “Shoo.”
Pietà doesn’t recoil. Instead, she parts her lips slightly and breathes it in. Augusta nearly swears.
That damned woman is shotgunning her attempt to be a nuisance.
“Never,” Pietà replies. Leaning forward until their lips are a millimeter away from grazing, she breathes out, forcing the smoke into Augsta’s mouth, which is parted from the cigarette dangling between her lips.
Augusta is filled with Pietà. The scent of her lip gloss mingles with the scent of the smoke. Pietà’s eyelashes flutter against Augusta’s and they’re close, too close, but Augusta can’t scramble away because she’s already against the back of the couch.
Pietà’s legs easily swing over Augusta’s lap. Augusta clutches at the cushions to hold herself back from shoving Pietà away. With her luck, Pietà’s skull would crack against the corner of the coffee table.
Then Pietà would release the cursed videos and ruin Augusta. But would she get bored of Augusta and leave, if hurt enough? Or would toying with jagged glass bring her further joy at the inevitable slice of her bony hand?
“I’ve never done this before,” Pietà admits as she tilts Augusta’s chin upward so that their eyes are making contact.
Pietà’s glasses catch the ceiling light, creating a glare.
“Done what?” Augusta croaks, feeling like a patient in the psych ward being scrutinized through a one-way mirror. Her skin crawls as if a thousand ants are walking on her. It’s scalding where Pietà’s skin makes contact with her.
“Used tobacco like this,” Pietà says. “Shotgunning is the term, correct?”
“It is.”
Augusta’s stomach sinks. She doesn’t like the look on Pietà’s face.
“Let’s see how much of the pack we can get through like this until the food arrives, then,” Pietà says. “It’ll be a good way to stave off boredom.”
“You’re gonna be wasting perfectly good tobacco.”
“We’re going to be wasting perfectly good tobacco,” Pietà corrects. “It takes two to tango. Now open wide,” she croons as if she were a mother speaking to a toddler.
She purses her lips to blow smoke. Augusta presses her lips into a thin line. “Go fuck yourself.”
The familiar dance is re-ignited. Pietà will push and Augusta will refuse to bend until Pietà’s tolerance reaches the breaking point. The videos will threaten to be leaked, and Augusta will fold like a lawn chair.
Augusta knows she should quit fighting. Because maybe then, Pietà will grow bored and simply leave. But what if in that boredom she leaks the videos?
So for that small risk, Augusta will bear her cross the best she can, upholding the remnants of her dignity as she shoves away the only person who will ever accept her.