Chapter 5: Young and Perfect

New chapter y'all. It's a first draft; I'll probably add stuff later...
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CHAPTER FIVE
Young and Perfect
Though I continued to occupy the house for a period of time after the events described herein, and though I certainly continued to enjoy the life I had made for myself, the most sparkling section of the year lost its inviting, amicable glean in the cool, windy month of May when, one day, Elizabeth left. She had announced that she and her beau, a jolly, curly-haired man named Rhett Barbour, were going to begin their life together. Naturally, this entailed her leaving the familiar comforts offered by our small, joint estate.
After Elizabeth left, a peculiar melancholy fell over the house. The cats first noticed the change. In an effort to brighten the mood, my orange tabby, Roger, and Bagheera the black-and-grey kitten, conspired to lift our spirits by heightening their feline antics and greeting us more regularly upon our homecomings, but even their gentle affection failed to completely mask the inexplicably glum mood which hung around the halls and rooms like so much cigarette smoke.
The day the reality of her departure fully made itself known to me was May 26th, 1923. After a particularly interesting day of creative endeavors, I made my habitual nocturnal arrival upon our steps. The house, darkened, seemed to look at and pity me as I stood before it in the barely remarkable light thrown by the few electric streetlamps that had been haphazardly installed along the avenue.
I knew she would no longer live with us past today. We had feted her departure, in excess, the night before. None of it seemed real, though, till my arrival on the landing of the second floor. My eyes drifted to the left and I beheld the ransacked carcass that had been her room. I moved down the hallway; in the darkness of the evening and my tristesse, I eyed the remnants left behind—a lamp, a slipper, clumps of her cat’s hair—
“I love you!” she had said, our arms entwined on each other’s shoulders in joyfully inebriated solidarity. Turning to the room, she had proclaimed, “I love all of you beautiful creatures!” in the mock-English tones she affected when her chemical-induced delirium had reached its height.
Now, standing in what used to be her room, I realized how deeply I loved her. It was not a romantic love (for I have, try as I might, found myself entirely incapable of cultivating any feelings of such a nature), but the strongest love I was capable of feeling—fraternal love. She had welcomed me into her home and loved me unconditionally—and so had Brittany, and so had Jason. I felt for these three people—people who, a mere five months ago I had never spent any significant amount of time. Now we were a family.
So I cried. I cried for the bliss of our fantasy-filled nights, I cried for the shared conversations and the meals and the moonlight. I cried because, though I knew they would continue, I knew also they would be altered in a way only perceptible to those who had known what they had been.
And I knew that, in their due time, both Brittany and Jason would also move out and be replaced by new roommates. I knew that I couldn't stay, either, no matter how desperately I wanted to shackle myself to worn knob of the brown front door and cry out, "I cannot leave! I'm home here!" As the invisible yet ever-present force of adulthood did its best to catapult me into the open jaws of a hungry world.
The simplest moments now, somehow, resonated more significantly than before. As I recalled a particular instant that had been engraved into my brain, I swore from then on I would pay closer mind to each second of each as, as days make up months, and months turn into years, and years are precious and intimate moments are fleeting...
I remembered the day that we lay in the living room as we had done innumerable times before and would do again after. For a reason  I have been able to bring to memory, we were tired. Jason, a confused yet profound look plastered on his face, scribbled away furiously at some play he was attempting to finish. Brittany, engrossed in the reading of the third novel she had started in a week's time, sat in a rocking chair opposite him, her knees folded against her chest. I occupied the long green couch between them. Near my head, the phonograph droned noiselessly, the penultimate masterpiece of a revered genius turning in the background, unheard and utterly ignored by the somniferous beings reclining in the wooded room. Our nerves tense, we awaited the occurrence of some unknown event which would divert us for the evening. In its absence, we continued to drearily hold forth in our salon; pointlessly tired, we rested unendingly.
Our aimless reverie was interrupted by Elizabeth's entrance into the house; the click of the door behind her dragged us foggily back to earth. Her companion, Rhett, stood behind her.
"Rhett and I are going upstairs," Elizabeth muttered, gesturing vaguely to Rhett. It would seem the imprecise fatigue which permeated the living room had taken a hold of Elizabeth as well.
Jason, Brittany, and I muttered a non-worded reply. Elizabeth looked aimlessly down the hallway, took one step forward, and then turned to face the room. With a sigh, she added—"We might do it."
A pause.
Then the laughter began and continued as the single diversion we had awaited all night long came to pass then dissipated into the atmosphere. Our appetites for amusement satiated, Jason, Brittany, and I stood to tell each other good night.
I remember that my gaze fell on the empty gold picture frame affixed to the wall. I had, until that point, never fully realized the image which I would have placed between the four wooden beans had I been gifted with the ability to create images with brush and paint rather than mere words. Now, it appeared to me as distinctly as though it hung there in reality.
It would be a portrait of the four of us, and we would be here in this room. Elizabeth and I, holding our cats and smiling with stupid exuberance, would flank Jason and Brittany—she, holding a small instrument age couldn't actually play; he, cradling a bottle of wine (a substance never in short supply at our house). And ever present but out of the bounds of the frame would be our friends, all the beautiful, wistful souls who had frequented 221, hoping to collide with some indefinite yet joyous destiny.
And it would be 1923, in an oft-forgotten southern state, in a moderatly sized port town. And the party in the unimposing pink house tucked behind a fading tree would ever increase its fervor, forever rising, the hilarity never receding nor reaching a dissapointing plateau—
And we would be young. And life—for a short but enduring space of time—would be perfect.