Young and Perfect

Written as a parody of F. Scott Fitzgerald's style. It's also kinda based on real life. Bye.

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We--Jason, tall and handsome, a confused yet profound look forever plastered on his face; Brittany, short, yet still handsome, but in the way women in Jane Austen novels are described as handsome; and myself, short, not unhandsome--lay, flawless, in the living room. The record player droned noiselessly, the penultimate masterpiece of a revered genius turning in the background, ignored by we, the somniferous beings reclining in the wooded room. Pointlessly exhausted, we rested unendingly.

Our aimless reverie was interrupted by the entrance into the house of Elizabeth--shortest, with some hands. The click of the door behind her dragged us foggily back to earth. Her companion, Rhett (taller, so handsy) stood behind her.

"Rhett and I are going upstairs," Elizabeth muttered, gesturing vaguely to Rhett. His head nodded. 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. "We might do it."

She turned away and headed up the stairs, followed, obediently, by Rhett.

The house was an unimposing pink building tucked behind a fading tree at the end of south 5th Avenue. The year was 2013. And we were young. And we were perfect.