Porrim tossed her right leg over her left. Her green eyed gaze never wavered from its target. She had excellent taste in fashion, usually patterned or textured leggings under a skirt made by her younger half-sister, Kanaya. Her blouses were always cut lower than average, whether by design or by her own personal design. She liked to show off the details of her lacey undergarments. Why else would she pay such high prices for ornate finery? She scoffed when people told her it was crude for her bras to show. Men were always showing off their boxers, leaving their pants hanging around their thighs. Why should she hide something so much more beautiful than cotton ball holders?
The figure before her plucked a few single notes out on his Fender Mustang Special, a few years old but in near mint condition. The cherry red finish matched the bandana that he had left in his back pocket. His jeans hung off his body in a classic fit, and he had folded up the hem of his pants over his red Chuck Taylor's. He had been switching it up between these basketball trainers and his favorite pair of leather boots. His plain white ringer tee enveloped him just right, and the violet rings of the collar and sleeves hugged his appendages enough to highlight his muscular build.
Porrim knew she had found a decent project when she had heard him composing riffs in his garage. She had been taking a walk to get a hold of herself after an especially exhausting debate on the importance women's rights with her decidedly adherent best friend. She had heard a pleasant fifties jingle, like something out of an Elvis hit, and she followed the sound until she found the young man with the greased back hair strumming away, watching himself make Monroe faces in a full length mirror that was adhered to the back of the garage door.
His name was Cronus, or at least that was what he had introduced himself as. He said his little brother had started calling him that after reading a book of ancient gods. He created music. It was his destiny, he had told her. He had three hobbies: composing music, greasing his hair, and making eyes at the ladies. Porrim kept it to herself that she thought he was a closet case, and she immediately extended an offer of friendship, although she saw it more as a business deal.
Cronus had all the makings of a teen girl's wet dream. He was well built. He had good looks, blue eyes and a chiseled jaw, and he had this old school machismo about him, right down to the light scar on his forehead. He never told her how he had acquired such a mark, and she chose not to push the issue. There would be nothing gained from making her potential moneymaker get upset. If she could get him popular enough, even in the local music scene, she could have him push a message of gender equality. It was perfect, as long as she could get him to stop eschewing her lessons on the subject.
Today, he was strumming as usual. Porrim had taken her usual seat at his father's old mahogany desk that he left in the garage, complete with leather office chair. It was made of dark, well-used leather that appealed to Porrim's taste in high-end luxury goods.
"Have you thought about what we've discussed last week?" Her voice was rough, almost husky. She kept it to herself that this was from her nightly screaming along to riot grrrl tracks. It kept her morale strong, although her vocal chords seemed to suffer. She liked to think it made her sound like Joan Jett.
Cronus turned, strutting over to her as he slid his guitar over his shoulder. She wrinkled her nose at his new guitar strap. It was decorated with a print of pin up girls in different bathing suits and positions. At least there were women of color and different body types, she told herself. That much representation could earn him some points with different groups.
"You mean actually starting a band?"
"Of course."
"I don't know, Maryam. Don't you think that would draw the attention away from me?" He drew his palm over his face to emphasize his point.
"You just need to find people who are less attractive than you who can play music at least halfway decently." She rolled her eyes, hearing him mumble that the task wouldn't be too hard. "If all goes well, it would only bring you even further into the spotlight."
He leaned all his weight on one hip as she turned the chair quickly, kicking her feet, encased in ankle high boots, onto the desk. She leaned back in the chair.
"Think about it, dear."
He turned back to the mirror, taking his guitar in his hands again. He mimed wind milling a few chords before taking his pick in his teeth and strumming idly. Porrim knew his vanity was the best way to appeal to him. As long as she kept telling him that he was the star, she was in his highest regards.
She heard his shoes squeak as he turned.
"So you really think it would make me seem hotter if I had a band?"