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I've been influenced recently by Salinger and Wes Anderson and their use of stage direction in their storytelling. This is the first installment of a story set inside a one bedroom apartment

Claudine sat, looking out the window into the soul of the dark and muggy evening. Her skin was moist, it stuck to a leather chair that smelled of moth balls and copper coins. The air around her was stagnant and warm. The lamps radiated a low red glow that reflected off of the polished wood grained coffee table. Sweat vexed her face to grimace and a stream of saline slid the length of her eyebrow and splattered upon her nose. The stream divided into three tributaries and forged a route to the left check and slowly dissipated into oblivion on her neck.

Enter Timothy, a stout figure with slicked brown hair and sole vexation of Claudine.

Timothy swung the door open, arm extended with the knob and dark skin absorbing the low red glow of the room. Claudine does not turn to acknowledge Timothy’s entrance and thus Timothy is unclear whether she is aware of him. This statement is validated through Timothy’s response:

“Claudine, Claudine, are you okay?”

No movement of Claudine’s moist and sticky skin, no acknowledgement of any kind from Claudine for that matter.

“Claudine, are you awake? Are you alright? Claudine, you absolutely must respond to me. This foolish game you’re playing will not do.”

Claudine faintly knew Timothy was in the room, his abrupt presence bending the light streams of the red glow. However, she was preoccupied with the particular moment in time that was so perfect, now disturbed by her neighbor’s interruption.