fireflies in the night

Dorcas Meadowes doesn’t like many people. She has always enjoyed being alone, unbothered, observing, more a chameleon than a butterfly. Being surrounded by annoying bustling human lives, clunking cutlery, wailing babies, fighting couples, self-entitled patrons, overbearing fathers; it gives her a headache. 

“Dorcas are you listening to me?.” Her father says, sat across from her in a restaurant.

“Yes, sorry. You asked about Mum, and she’s still in Paris. I replied to her email yesterday.” 

Her father doesn’t say anything, and Dorcas doesn’t feel inclined to frustrate her father into complaining about his ex-wife again by giving more details (like how she’s settling into her apartment in the 15th  arrondissement, and what a great impact she’s had in the Western world of classical music), so she ends the subject on that

She finished her plate about 10 minutes ago, hoping that eating quicker would mean she could leave quicker too, and is left to stare at her father. Eugene and Sonia don’t love each other any more, they are intertwined in each other’s lives unwillingly because they do in fact love their daughter. It serves as a constant reminder to Dorcas, having to appease one without infuriating the other. 

“Lord knows why she should choose to move all the way to Europe, away from you,” It’s even harder to please your father when he feeds from his passive-aggressive nature.

 “So…” He says before scoffing down a spoonful of rice. 

He’s doing that thing with his eyebrows, switching between furrowing and relaxing them over and over, and the rest of his body is completely still. It’s unnerving. Not because of the bizarre lack of movement, but rather because of what it means; Eugene has a thought, a question, to which there is one particular answer. He knows exactly what he does and doesn’t want to hear. Dorcas knows this, and thanks to a history of growing up with parents who always had a hand wrapped around the other’s throat, she knows that her mother doesn't. Or maybe she does and refuses to acknowledge it. Either way, Dorcas knows that the truth will cal to conflict, and that a sly attempt at people-pleasing will get her home in less than an hour.

“How is, uh,” Eugene began again. “How’s New York?”

Ah, right. Of course, he’s asking about New York. And it’s such an innocent question, to be fair. Dorcas moved to the Big Apple at the beginning of the year, any caring father would want to know how their grown child is facing in the Real World. But the independence and solitude that Dorcas has finally got her hands on is what displeases her father, and he has certainly been voicing his opinion on this new development in her life.

“New York is really… surprising, you know? A lot of things are as I expected, but uh, still nice;”

“Hmm yes. It’s a huge city, and it’s very different from Ventura: a completely different culture, and even the landscape would be unfamiliar to a girl like you. Actually, well– now that you mention it– I read another article about the rise of crime even in the good neighbourhoods of New York. You wouldn’t find something like that here,” Her father argues, unsurprising Dorcas.

Dorcas wants to mention the fact that crime is on the rise in all urban areas, because that’s just the way people are, but she hums and guzzles more white wine.

“I have no problem with this career you’ve built with yourself: God has blessed my daughter with beauty and brains, and you’re undeniably on the rise to achieve your goals. But I– switching coasts? Going to New York?”

“I get more opportunities there, I can land more shows.” 

Dorcas has this habit when she’s faced with people she loves the way she loves her parents, where she becomes a performer. She’s smart enough to know that most people don’t want you to be yourself, and she’s had a decade to learn what her father wants and what her mother wants. A woman of many talents, she is, who has crafted herself the perfect mask of the perfect daughter. 

“New York is good for me. The modelling agencies based here are more prestigious and established, and the environment makes it much easier to boost my career. It’ll all be worth it by the end of the year, trust me.” 

He hums, again, nodding his head vigorously.

“And I’m so thankful to you for helping with the apartment for the time being. I’ll be able to afford it myself soon, so it’s temporary.”

“Anything for my girl,” Dorcas smiles, genuinely, because she knows how much he is willing to do for his girl. Eugene Meadowes has spent half of his life fighting for his space in this country that does not want him, relentlessly pushing for his own space and his own roof, holding it up with his own scuffed hands for Dorcas. 

He starts eating some more, and grumbles at the taste. “I still don't see why you’re so desperate to get away from me. Like I’m pulling you down– like one of those, uhm…that thing,”

Dorcas props her elbows on the table and rests her chin on her clasped hands as she waits. She could most likely guess what word he’s looking for is “anchor”, but he despises when other people try and finish his sentences, condescendingly eager to treat him like the immigrant idiot. Like Dorcas’ mother did constantly. 

So she looks away from him and down at his unfinished plate and observes. She observes the couple in the booth across from her, the way the man’s head has been fixated on his companion’s bare legs, rather than her face. The babbling child on her left who wants french fries and chicken nuggets in a reservation-only gastronomical restaurant. The waitress with the black pixie cut and the cute hooked nose making her way to their table.

“Should I take that away, sir?” She asks, subtly taking Dorcas’ plate in hands and pointing at her father’s.

“Oh no, I don’t waste food,” 

It’s only when the waitress has wandered off that he starts eating again, snidely tells Dorcas about the disgusting zesty flavour of his lemon mushroom risotto, and promises to make some ‘real food’ next month. Eugene stops his grumpy stuttering and talks about his company, recounting the rudest exchanges of the month with a small laugh, as though the thinly veiled insults thrown his way are nothing but a pinch on his skin. 

In the mid-80s, Eugene Meadowes as recruited by a small, run-down tech company, and gave his blood, sweat and tears over and over and over to perfect their drive motor. Dorcas remembers how early he left home, and how late he came back, and her mother retells the way how his eyes turned frantic, how he locked himself in the study, how his employees called him stupid, delusional, and worse. And then, it was his plans, his innovations which became an essential component to producing CD players. He was responsible for one of the most necessary parts of the most sought-after piece of tech in the world, and nobody really knows. Of course, a man, a white man, named Vincent Forrest took all the credit, and rapidly scaled to the Executive Director position her father was desperately hiking to. 

Dorcas loves and respects her father enough to always call that company his, just as he loves and respects her enough to let her move three thousand miles away from him at 21 years old. They wait for a taxi together, and Dorcas insists on sending the first one to her father’s hotel. He doesn’t kiss her forehead goodbye, or hug her tightly, because he’s not a touchy man, but he squeezes her arm for one quick second before stepping in the car.

“Ọlọrun wa pẹlu rẹ, ọmọbinrin mi,” God is with you, my girl.  

The night carries a cool wind, yet not strong enough for Dorcas to regret her outfit: a velvet navy blue dress that ends below her knees with long sleeves and no jacket. And she walks home, with the night sky as her companion and the desire to feel her solitude wholly.  

She misses the seclusion, the isolation from society she was afforded from growing up on a beach, and even if that space was never her own, she never felt sleazy eyes on her with every step she took. The bustling city life is the only source of noise as she walks, yet the foul thoughts of the creeps submerged in the night don't need to be voiced for Dorcas’ skin to prickle in fear. Being a woman has never felt more tedious than since she’s arrived in New York.

Dorcas thinks her relationship with her father is like facing a chess grandmaster. Every spoken word is slowly calculated, and every silence that lingers between what remains unspoken even more so. They are just adults who eternally owe something to each  other, separated by space and bound by family duty. Dorcas and Eugene share more than the ‘Meadowes’ name: the same wide nose shape, the same facial structure, the same discomfort towards intimacy. He doesn’t really know how to show his emotions, so Dorcas reads between the lines, adding subtitles to a foreign movie, learning the language little by little on her own.

And her mother (oh her mother ), a gladiator of motherhood. Dorcas certainly doesn’t want to think about her right now. So she walks and watches, and keeps away the thoughts about her mother, who she hasn’t contacted in 2 years, and her father, who wishes Dorcas were less like her mother, and how it really is getting chilly at night, and how she hated the food she scoffed down in a quarter of an hour.

When she does get past her building's front door, and gracefully clambers up six flights of stairs to the final floor, sees the moving boxes stacked in front of the front door adjacent to hers, and smells the fresh red paint on the door. Dorcas becomes more self-aware, less lost in her mind; she can only briefly acknowledge the possibility of a new neighbour when her front door opens suddenly with a squeal.

“Oh my god, hi! Hello! Come in!” Pandora greets her three times, as she always does. 

“How was your day? How did it go with your dad? Did he ask about me? I thought he’d come all the way back here, so I made banana bread! But I didn’t open the windows, so I think it smells a bit. Can you smell it?”

Pandora is not Dorcas’ roommate. The oven is used more by Pandora and her zealous (yet impressive) passion for baking, and there’s a rolling makeup case that always sits by the loo. Pops of pink decor in the living room, strands of platinum blonde curls, lavender incense, editorial makeup looks ripped out of Allure Magazine, Mazzy Star records in the guest bedroom, beaded necklaces abandoned on the table. And yet Pandora Lovegood has her very own place, courtesy of her cousin, with her own fridge she can fill with as much chocolate milk as she pleases.

“When I gave you my second key in case of emergencies, it doesn’t give you a free pass to sneak in whenever I’m out,” Dorcas sighs half-heartedly. She likes having a space she can call hers. Something that she can live in freely, that she can control and manipulate to her own desires over and over until she’s satisfied. 

She spent her first modelling paycheck on the purple velvet sofa, which remains the most expensive piece of furniture in her living room. The walls are painted a soft sunset orange; dark cherry wood covers the floor up to the kitchen; plants thrive in every corner of her home, resembling a forest. Dorcas knows that she’s lucky to have such a spacious apartment in a good neighbourhood of New York, and she doesn’t plan to move elsewhere. 

“You didn’t answer my question!”

“You don’t live here.” Dorcas replies, slipping off her boots and making her way to the bathroom to remove her makeup.

“If you want me out, just say so! But I'm taking my hard work with me!” Pandora threatens lightly, cradling her banana bread tin to her side. Dorcas ignores her, not out of spite or rudeness but simply because she’s not in the mood to unravel her hectic day. She just wants to drink until she passes out and listen to Pandora. 

“It was fine. And yes, it does smell weird in here.” Dorcas makes eye contact with Pandora through the mirror, face bare and damp from makeup wipes.

“Sorry, Dorky. I’ll clean up later.”

“Firstly, ew, I can't believe you still call me that. Secondly, you’re so wifely, Dora.” 

“Only you would find a way to complain about help from a friend,”

“Is making my home smelly and messy really helpful?”

“Well, don’t think about that! Think about this!” She waves a slice under Dorcas’ nose before plopping down on the sofa. Dorcas joins her, letting her eyes stray to the TV .

“Aaaand welcome back to This Week on Rock. You know what I do here, and I love doing it: spreading the gospel of rock and roll. I’m Gilderoy Lockhart, and I’m feeling like a Kool Thing this week. The band I’m talking about are three childhood friends undeniably on the rise, Manchester born and raised, a fresh fusion of punk guitar rhythm and indie rock songwriting: The Knights! Currently finishing their first USA tour with their sensational debut album “Lost with the Griffins”, we head to Charity Burbage with an overview of her backstage exclusive interview with the band before their first night in New York!”

“Thank you, Gilderoy, to be frank with you all I’m pretty nervous to be meeting these three youngsters, they’ve only been to the US once but the rumours cling to them like glue. And I can feel you judging me because of how much I love these kids but dear God this kind of innovative artistry is just…” The reporter hesitates, and her eyes start to glaze as though the simple memory of being in a room with The Knights was a religious ceremony, and she just laughs incredulously.

“James Potter has easily become an irresistible and adored lead singer to the average American girl, and Peter Pettigrew has a charismatic, down-to-earth energy that makes him seem like a guy you just meet and immediately trust: but Marlene McKinnon is the most enticing and mysterious of them all. 19-year-old bassist extraordinaire, the shimmering magic woman; it’s no surprise she’s gained the nickname ‘The Cherry Wizard’. She has always been a favorite of mine”

“Ha! I’m gonna have to disagree with you on that one I think. I mean, sure she knows what she’s doing on stage but traipses on the line of arrogance and—“

“Dorky, can you change the channel please? Apartment 20 is on!” Pandora interjects

“You can’t really expect me  to be kind to you when you keep disrespecting me with that stupid name” Dorcas sighs dramatically, but she grabs the remote to put on Pandora’s favourite sitcom.

“I wish I was an actress,”

“No you don’t. You love doing makeup”

“Hmm, sure. Maybe I’m just jealous that they get to work with interesting, beautiful people all the time.” She answers wistfully.

“We work together, literally every day.” Dorcas states blankly

“Hmm” Pandora hums again, in a high-pitched octave that matches her face of fake pity. “Sure…”

“Ha! You little b–” Dorcas pushes Pandora, and she almost falls to the ground.

“Dorcas! No swearing!”

“Oh, so that’s what it takes to be called Dorcas.”