[b]Rosa and Joseph Kimbell[/b]

The apartment block awoke in a tremendous groan as the mass of pipes began to heat up. An unruly bell had been trilling in Rosa’s ear for the past fifteen seconds, loud enough to rouse the dead but only just managing to get the woman conscious enough to bat it clean off the table with a deft swoop. The motion sent her body past the point of no return, off the edge of the bed and towards the invitingly cold floorboards. Another tremendous groan followed the tremendously loud thump that followed.

[color=#800020]“I hate to see de evenin' sun go down,"[/color] came the raspy, croaky notes of a very groggy figure slumped on the floor.  [color=#800020]“Hate to see de evenin' sun go down,"[/color] she repeated solemnly, sluggishly pushing her torpid figure up onto its knees, then onto its arse and finally those reliable feet. [color=#800020] “'Cause ma baby, he done lef' dis town…” [/color]W.C Hardy, eat your heart out. Armstrong had Rosa's, locked up in his trumpet case and that dastardly doggone smile.


You had to be a certain way to sing the [URL=https://youtu.be/3rd9IaA_uJI ]blues.[/URL] As in, not necessarily black - not really, though the best ones are - but downtrodden. Well and truly fucked by Life, the world's oldest and loosest whore. [color=#800020]“Feelin’ tomorrow like I feel today,"[/color] observed Rosa as her nails scratched lazily at her buttocks. [color=#800020]“Feel tomorrow like I feel today,"[/color] she confirmed, louder this time. [color=#800020]“I'll pack my trunk, make ma git away,"[/color] she crooned, brushing her hair in vain as her feet took her out to the kitchen.

The kitchen was a dead thing, cruelly reanimated by the creaking copper central heating pipes. It lacked colour, or even brightness - the white tiles had given up long before either of the inhabitants did and sunk into a lowly, dingy grey that couldn't be scrubbed off. It held the spirit of Louisiana captive for so long that she went mad and shot herself, leaving nought but the orange spatters of the exit wound over the stovetop. Crusted-on Cajun sauces that neither of them could afford anymore were all that remained. On the worst days, the ones where there was no food on the table for weeks, did Rosa ever lick those spots out of desperation - but only once, to preserve their memory like a shrine? To breathe life back into her aching shoulders and reinvigorate her trembling body as it came to from one of her otherworldly interruptions? For what purpose were these fermented stains left upon an otherwise clean enough kitchen, laziness or something deeper? 

Rosa's nail scraped at one of those orange landmarks. [color=#800020]“The bayou is stubborn,"[/color] she murmured. [color=#800020]“Speaking of stubborn…”[/color]she continued, raising her head to peer out of those useless reveries. [color=#800020]“Uncle Joey! Un-cle JOOOOOH-WHEEE!”[/color] her hollering shook the paint on the walls, made the room inhale it's dusty air after a whole night of relative peace. Undead culinary stations and the lonely moans of the Saint Louis Blues could only temporarily hold back the irreverent mass of colour and energy that is, was, and forever will be Rosa Kimbell. [color=#800020]“Getcha god-fearing ass outta bed so’s I can dig into these telegrams and eggs!”[/color]

[color=#f7e7ce]“ROSA!”[/color] Joseph let out a muffled yell from behind his door.[color=#f7e7ce] “YOU GOD DAMN LOUT!”[/color] followed by several minutes of silence as heavy footsteps stamped around behind his door. The door suddenly swung open and into the kitchen barged Joseph who refused to speak a word to the girl as he angrily banged about the pans and glasses in preparation for their breakfast. 

Content that Joe was starting the process of yet another round of fried eggs (or some eggy equivalent) as their main, and probably only meal, Rosa set to work opening the envelopes. [color=#800020]“A bill. Another bill,"[/color] she mumbled, peering miserably at the numbers. [color=#800020] “A...Oh right, yeah. Hey Joey, do you have friends?”[/color] Joseph continued to ignore her, a hint that he had not gotten over his rude awakening.[color=#800020] “I mean like, anyone who'd actually ring our flat. Who's Hobbs?”[/color] Rosa persisted, drumming her fingers on the tabletop in a valiant attempt to make the most annoying noise possible.

Joseph stood facing the stove and away from her, baring his teeth as the drumming got on his nerves.[color=#f7e7ce] “It’s the agency.”[/color] he forced out from between his teeth. [color=#f7e7ce] “The private investigator job.”[/color] he finished and fell back into silence as he continued with their breakfast preparation.

[color=#800020]“Huh.” [/color]Rosa stopped being annoying and pulled a face of great contemplation.[color=#800020] “After you went to bed, someone called us. Said we needed to meet them in a penthouse suite - Upper East Side.”[/color]

[color=#f7e7ce]“What time?”[/color] Joseph responded, briefly pausing the cooking as he took a moment to understand the implication of the telegrams request.

[color=#800020]“Ten in the-[i]SHIT[/I],"[/color] Rosa threw her arms in the air, twirling around and pacing the tiny room like a gibbon in a birdcage. [color=#800020] “That's in an hour! What am I gonna wear?! I need my gloves but I can't just go in my jumpsuit, can I? Maybe a dress? Who the fuck wears a dress in the day?!” [/color]

Joseph had by now calmed down, primarily due to Rosa’s sudden hectic turn.[color=#f7e7ce] “Clothes.”[/color] he replied, turning to slip the cooked eggs onto awaiting plates.

Rosa froze mid turn and eyed the eggs hungrily. She collapsed back into the chair - food had a greater influence over her than fear - and started to wolf them down with what could best be described as 'grotesque enthusiasm’. At any rate, it was enough to keep her seated and keep her silent. That was all Joseph needed. [color=#f7e7ce] “We’ll grab the subway. Go get dressed when you’re done.” [/color]he ordered.

It didn’t take long for Rosa to tear through the meal. After letting loose the customary burp, she leapt out of her chair and made it into her room in two bounds. Her wardrobe was sparse at best, with raggedy old oil-stained clothes and a couple of tenderly kept pieces of dress clothing for the multitude of parties she snuck into. The place they were going wasn’t some sort of speakeasy shindig - it was the real deal, Long-Island-and-Chauffeurs sort of rich. In a world like that, honesty was the only thing that people like Rosa had left. No sense in pretending to be a rich immigrant - she pulled on the trusty slacks, the cleanest vest she had on hand and her work boots (somewhat pointlessly scrubbed down with an old oil rag). Her jacket covered the skin on her arms - a set of ladies’ leather gloves covered her hands. 

Rosa checked herself out in the mirror, gave her rump an encouraging slap and sauntered out into the kitchen.[color=#800020] “So, are we going with the usual shtick today, buddy? Skin condition and seizures?” [/color]she queried, tugging the belt of her trousers so they’d fit on her dwindling figure.[color=#800020] “It’s one thing wearin’ gloves in a factory, a fashion statement at a party, but [i]in someone’s home[/i]...I dunno, Upper East Side fellas seem like the sort to kick up a fuss.”[/color]

[color=#f7e7ce]“There will be a time and a place, that time isn’t now. Gloves stay on and you don’t talk about it.” [/color]Joseph plodded into his own room after resting the dishes in the sink to dress himself. Out of habit and boredom, Rosa dried the dishes whilst she waited.

[color=#800020]“I know, that wasn’t what I was asking. I was making sure we got our stories straight, so when they do ask I can just say it’s a health thing, instead of sayin’ shit like ‘I don’t wanna talk about it’ like some sorta freak,"[/color] Rosa retorted impishly. A jingling of keys and the heavy clumping sound of her work boots came from the living space before the door swung open ([color=#800020]“Hurry [i]up[/i] Joey!”[/color]) and two slightly sleepy, slightly nervous figures sloped out and towards the station.

[center]___________[/center]

[color=#800020]“Y’know,"[/color] murmured Rosa conspiratorially as she gave Joseph’s ribs a quick jab with her elbow,[color=#800020] “I get the feeling she’s...got the same disposition that I do.”[/color]

To put it lightly, Rosa hadn’t seen this much open nudity since a couple of her friends from the factory had broken open the street’s fire hydrant. The marble statues depicting - in painstaking detail - the curvature and forms of both men and women were certainly gaudy against the paintings and tapestries, and the whole place stank of [i]Nouveau Riche[/i]. Not that Rosa was particularly surprised. She wondered how much this Hobbs woman was paying poor Mr. Foley to repeat the same spiel, the same mechanical chores, day in, day out. She wondered if he was ever reprimanded for letting the endless monotony slip - a slight deviation from his instruction manual would land him where, precisely? In the scrap pile, next to the broken bulbs and the blown out fuses? Rosa felt a twinge of pride for her utter inability to find any job in customer service - she did not have the right programming.

Joseph grunted [color=#f7e7ce]“Don’t,"[/color] a quick warning and a firm end to the conversation. It snapped Rosa out of her musings and reminded her of where she was. She had to remain sharp, be formal, and above all - keep her mouth shut. One look up at Joseph’s sullen stare was enough to confirm that he was thinking the exact same thing.

The room that contained Miss Hobbs was a prime snooping room, chock-full of whatsits and doodads just waiting to be picked apart by grubby little fingers. Books, papers, ornaments, the odd painting here and there - everything had a story to it. Everything looked like it mattered. Rosa’s jaw clenched and she tried to pass it off as a distaste for the décor, because it certainly fucking was a distaste for the décor. 

The place was a psychometric [i]minefield[/i]. Even now Rosa could feel the goosebumps on her arms. Her fingers were getting pins and needles. She thanked her lucky stars that she tucked in her shirt. This was always the case when she went somewhere new, but it certainly taught her to stop fidgeting with everything she saw and it kept her wary enough to notice things that you wouldn’t usually notice - because usually, picking up a paperweight wouldn’t give your average Joe a seizure. 

Joey. Rosa looked over at the older man and tried to unlock any latent telepathy skills that went with her own weird abilities. Maybe he’d be able to figure it out by the look of discomfort, but probably not. By the look that he gave her back, he definitely did not understand, and wasn’t even remotely thinking about Rosa even though he also picked up on the layout of the room. They both sat down on one of the sofas - slowly, stiffly - one out of age and strife, the other out of back-sweating terror.