Metamorphosis

"I should have never asked Josh Franceschi to fuck me."

Anne's old lips slide upwards with a smirk that Ivy had become accustomed to very recently. So recently that it was only three days ago since her and Anne had been spending more than the required amount of time together. The truth is that Ivy sees much of herself in that woman. If it were not for the profanity, the dry humor, and recklessness, the two would have had no idea just how similar they are. Just two bare-knuckled ladies who used whatever resources available to get what they wanted. Their only difference?
They are two generations apart.

Ivy Matthews is known for her illuminated hazel eyes, which strongly contrast with her long crimson hair that ends in waves. She smiles with pink pouty lips that are always glossed, and right above those lips are delicately freckled cheeks that spay out, starting at the bridge of her nose. On this day of visiting Anne she wore a white sleeveless top with intricate designs on the straps and denim jeans.

Anne, even though five decades older, does not entirely look to fit the part. She has style, a quality that has the young girl in a web of fascination. The short and wispy brown hair still possesses a shine as bright as the dark silver eyeshadow below her perfectly plucked brows. Her skin may give away her age, along with her parentheses cheeks, but her warm lips painted red are plush and young. They hide yellow teeth that are rotting away, granted, but the black floral dress covered in magenta blossoms is a hope by Anne to take everyone's eyes away from her flaws.

She is an overworked sass machine who longs for the occasional cigarette when her nurse is not looking, and has no reservations over blurting out whatever is on her mind. In spending three days with her, Ivy had been informed by Anne just how many 'hound dogs' want a minute of her time even if it were to rub her feet. "And honey, lemme tell ya, those feet of mine are more of a mess than Charlotte's web," she says at least twice a day. The young adult finds the chatty senior to be more truthful and entertaining than most of the friends she has made in her own age group.

She was always under the impression that 'old people' are all boring and decaying corpses that love to knit, eat oatmeal, and gossip with their high-class gal friends. She thought that old people had lost their fiery tongue as they hit a mid-life crisis and transformed into cordial, empty shells. Reverse metamorphosis. Her own grandparents fit under this stereotype like the glass slipper on Cinderella's foot. They are only worth having around if she is getting compensated through money or gifts. While socializing with them without those benefits she saw firsthand just how worthless their lives are as they only seem to live for family functions and complaining about their bunions. Ivy wants to be young forever after one evening of being in the presence.

"You fucked my grandson?"
Anne asks, her eyes filling to the brim with amazement.

Ivy nods, an identical smirk on the bottom of her face. Shrugging knowingly, Anne starts leaning back further into the burgundy recliner before saying, "It was only a matter of time."

"Oh really?" Ivy says with a laugh.
"And what made you so sure?"

"It's in the Franceschi gene pool to be so charming."

"Well I wouldn't go that far," the young woman retorts.
"He was anything but. I was the one charming him."

Anne moves forward as subtly as she had declined back, discovering a new interest in the conversation outside of her grandson's personal life.

"Ah, now that sounds like me when I was your age. I had all the boys wrapped around my finger," she hold up her index for Ivy to see for emphasis.

It is pruny and patterned with thin blue veins that have protruded with age. It is an old retelling of a young tale from an equally young heart.

"Oh how they chased after me like I was a hot tamale, yes sir'ee."
A chuckle escapes through her teeth.

Her eyes, twinkling bright blue with nostalgia, flicker over to a nearby window. The trees outside sway softly, the emerald leaves glowing under the sun's rays. It is the prime of spring and everyone beyond Gable's Retirement Home is enjoying it to the fullest extent.

Ivy joins in witnessing a small group of children with brilliant beams scatter across the grass like busy ants while their teacher keeps a leisurely eye on them. Birds hop from tree to tree with twigs in their beaks to complete their nests, cars cruise smoothly on the asphalt, and housewives cross the parking lot of the grocery store down the road with full carts. The two women, experiencing contrary life cycles, are staring with the same amount of passion and longing. They peer into heaven from their place in purgatory. However content they feel, they could be better. Anne loves the outdoors but she cannot leave the building unless she is under the supervision of her family or Joyce, her nurse. Ivy is neither; she can deny feeling guilty and vastly unhelpful. The only thing she can do is open the window in Anne's apartment to give her a taste of the fresh air.

The old maid tears her gaze away from the aperture to view the surrounding she is actually a part of: the senior living room. She is slapped with a reality check as she has her sights on a fellow tenant whose eyes are glued to the vintage television that is placed in the center of the space, along with a handful of others. Fox News is rambling on dully from the speakers and Ivy cringes. Sitting next to the lady on the couch is a much older man, the senior of the seniors, whose hands shake violently as he struggles through feeding himself yogurt. It is hard for the two women to examine, and even treads into the territory of second-hand embarrassment.
A nurse soon walks over and assists him.

"Do you ever get bummed that you live with some of these people?"
Ivy asks, trying to shake off the goosebumps she has gotten from the man's slurps.

"Dear," Anne begins,
"I'm 'bummed' period. It's no fun being 70."

A grunt sounds from the other side of the room. Standing in the left corner, confined by metal contraptions found in gyms, is a man who looks to be in his mid-eighties, working his forearms like an unsteady balance. He grips onto the weights in each hand and plays dangerously with the options of a heart-attack and a healthy lifestyle.

"At least I know my limitations," she comments with a snort.

The woman is a heavy believer in sarcasm, witnessing the heavy-weight champion in mockery. Ivy can clearly see the family resemblance between Josh and his grandmother. They are cheeky big talkers with blue eyes that were lit with self-esteem. Anne has a knack for tearing people down behind their back. Ivy finds it entertaining to say the least, and that downgrades her sense of kind character. She questions if the three of them can be musketeers.

"But anyways, I shouldn't have had sex with him."

"With who?"
Anne wonders.

"Josh."

"Oh yeah, right," she says in a false epiphany.

Ivy always has to tell herself not to digress from a subject for too long or else it would be lost in the wind, just as the leaves are outside.

"Why do you regret it sugar? He's a fine boy, and I'm not just saying that because he's my grandson."

Of course that is why she is saying that. The Josh she knows and the one that Ivy is accustomed to are two completely different people. He put on a smile and works his charm with his extended family and treats the girl like trash in the blink of an eye. Not that she is innocent and does not deserve it, but even before their history grew into a clusterfuck of complications he still never treats her or anyone else for that matter as well as he treats Anne. It is human nature to tweak personalities to fit in with whoever is in front of them, but he was, and still is, a real bullshitter and it nauseates his old friend.

"So what happened?"
Anne is pressing for an answer.

"Don't break my heart and tell me that he had you making all the moves."

It was the first move, the second move, the third move, and so on. Thinking back to that sunset, the one that had changed everything between them, Ivy had regretted it as much as their actual act of intercourse. Josh had given her a fair warning but she was having none of it. It all gathers together in front of her eyes, just as it had many times before, and Anne disappears from her sight only to be replaced by the dirty windshield of Josh's Pontiac. With the decaying sunlight highlighting the grime and creating a false illusion of smog among the horizon...