Rebecca was a girl

Rebecca lived in a tiny terrace in the inner city. Her room was in the attic, accessible only through a complex hierarchy of staircases that narrowed progressively as they climbed higher. One could, possibly, enter through the single window at the top of the high brick side of the house, but that would entail scaling foliage too meagre for any romantic tryst. Her neighbourhood was a jumble of old warehouse facades, only brick-thin, pubs, cornerstores, coffeeshops, vintage stores and Bollywood video rentals. The house was one in an identical row, each unit distinguished by the relative dilapidation of what had once been enthusiastic paint colours.

Rebecca was a dour girl, yet prone to laughter. When she failed to stop herself smiling she would shake it off like chicken feathers on a petulant fox. When it rained she would sit at the window looking out at the grey, reduced city, affecting a moody face. It would only last a few minutes because she became terribly bored. This was just as well, because it gave her more time to indulge in her passion. Rebecca’s favourite pastime was making costumes for parties she never went to. When a sci-fi party was announced she would immediately begin work on a towering robotic creature, equipped with flashing lights, glowing tubes and tantalising buttons, for her to crawl inside and metallically rage and roar. When the neighbours threw a Halloween party she locked her door for three days, eating only Saladas, making a the most grotesquely gothic gargoyle she could imagine.

The point was not to go to parties, because while Rebecca liked people by themselves, she detested their plural. No, the point was to know that, had she gone, she would have had the best costume and thus be the most fascinating creature there. She was satisfied with potentiality, so much the better to denounce those merry congregations.