And Promise Not, to Promise Anymore ~||~ Winchel

Rachel woke up with a bird’s song in her head. A sweet, sincere call of a wood thrush, with sharp whistles and soft burbles. It repeated in her head as she woke up and got dressed, brushed her teeth and had breakfast. It painted her thoughts with spring colours and warm sun until she finally headed back to her room, set up an easel and canvas, and began painting. Her paint and marker stained boombox was on the ground next to her bed, indie music gently streaming out of it. Her curly brown hair was messily tucked into a bun with a paintbrush, and her loose blue crop top was rumpled and already smeared with paint. Her grey sweatpants fared no better. But the empty canvas was already a splash of green and yellow and orange, spring streaming from the paintbrush Rachel held. Trees and flowers and a warm blue sky sprung from negative space, and a warm brown marked the shape of a bird in flight. Her lips parted to sing along to the song, and she moved with the rhythm of the colours. No one could disturb her. Her usually open door was closed, a sign for her cabin mates to leave her be for the time being. Her thick framed round glasses were perched on her nose, indicating she was in a state of extreme concentration. Even so, she could find a spare bit of mind to muse about her surroundings. Her messy, unmade bed, the easels placed around the room, the drafting table covered with paper and colour and pencils. Rachel smiled and her voice raised as the chorus of the song swelled. Today was going to be a good day.

There’s a state of mind some artists and writers go into while they’re working. It’s a twilight haze between focus and loss of reality, where nothing else exists except for their work, and the occasional filtered stream of music. But the small “Hello,” coming from the window immediately worked its way through Rachel’s consciousness, though her reaction was a bit late. She started, her paintbrush tumbling from her hand in an almost comical manner, landing on the floor. She hurried over to Winter, holding her arms to her chest. “Oh gods Millie, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I woke up with this idea for a painting and I had to get it down and you know how I am with my paintings- I forget everything and gods I just…” she trailed off, a chagrined expression on her face as she looked at Winter. “I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes, I just need to shower and dress,” she continued. She paused for a moment, then remembered. “Let me just help you in here, you can just wait on the bed or play around with my stuff.” With a quick movement and a bit of strain, she pulled Winter inside by the waist. “Fifteen minutes.”
She quickly gathered clothes and other assorted items and hurried into the bathroom, casting papers and sketches about haphazardly. Her current sketchbook, number ninety-three, was thrown carelessly onto the bed, pages fluttering open. A few more apologies and shamefaced smiles, and she slipped into her private bathroom, easing the door shut behind her. Her heart was hammering and her cheeks were so red, the freckles on her face almost disappeared. Gods I messed up, why didn’t I remember, it’s her birthday and I forgot to pick her up, crap crap crap, she thought frantically, as she got into the shower.Fifteen minutes, shower, dress, blow dry hair, grab present, grab money, she planned. She backtracked. Grab present. Where’s the present? She panicked, mentally going through the room in her mind. Rifling through her bedsheets, opening drawers, going through the art massacre that was her desk. She smacked her forehead. It was still on the easel, unwrapped, but covered with a colour-splattered tarp. I’ll just have to show her now, before we leave. Quickly, she stepped out of the shower, got dressed, dried her hair, and looked in the mirror. The face in the reflection was creased with worry. She relaxed. You’ll do fine, it’s just the two of you, going out into the city. Things can’t go that badly.
She stepped back into her room, checking the clock. She’d taken fifteen minutes exactly, and with a smile she grabbed her Frida Kahlo shoulder bag and started placing things into it.
“I’ve got so many things I want to do with you today, but I wasn’t sure if I should’ve planned, just in case you wanted to just walk around, so I just have a list in hand. I’ve got a lot of money, too, from my jobs last year, so you’re not paying anything today. Oh, and before we go, d’you want me to show you your present?"