She walked elegantly, as if she was floating on air. Her purple cape (very in) hovered above the sooty sidewalk, unwilling to touch the ground. The misty morning air did not dampen her face or her hair; she remained impeccable, untouched, undisturbed.
She was hopping from puddle to puddle to avoid ruining her black leather (very in) shoes. A shabby apartment loomed in the distance, behind a run-down street, three black and muddy puddles, and one overfilled dumpster. Her pointed nose turned up as she passed the large crate, blue in color (very out) with groceries and newspapers bursting upward, attempting to escape. Scraps of the Daily Punctilio peaked out from the dumpster, the headlines telling of wars starting and lawsuits ending and the unfortunate events of mundane life proceeding, as is common.
Esme Squalor paid no attention to these headlines, since newspapers were very out. Magazines, however, were on the rise. She made a mental note to buy some more magazines (soon to be very in) as she walked quickly and with purpose to this dilapidated flat. It was painted dark gray (very out) with faded and broken, faded blue shutters (very out) and cracked pots, void of plants, strewn across the yard (inexplicably out). The porch steps looked to be at their breaking point, so she hesitantly waded over them to reach the messy landing. Mumbling, she opened her cape and reached around it with a searching hand. Esme Squalor, heiress and socialite, resident of 667 Dark Avenue, was a fixture in the society pages of the Daily Punctilio (although she would never admit to have read them). Upon hearing the click of a camera, she had a habit of turning her head back, ever so slightly, and pouting at the camera. While posing in a designer dress and with her signature pout, often on her husband Jerome's arm, Esme Squalor reveled in her status and renown. Then why, you may ask, was Esme Squalor looking around this decrepit neighborhood as though she didn't want to be seen?
Finally finding her key, Esme turned it into the lock and pushed the creaking door open. At once, the stench of rotting animals surrounded and suffocated her. She began to cough and look for a place to sit as her eyes adjusted to the dark surroundings of this tiny dwelling. Carefully watching her step, she crept across the dusty floor and, while her eyes were down, she noticed an alarmingly pale ankle with a dark mark inscribed into it. Her shoulders fell from their prison instantly and her coughing quickly subsided.
"Olaf! You surprised me. I thought you would still be in your workshop." Her voice softened ever so slightly. "Although, I must say, it is a pleasant surprise. I haven't been able to see you for so long...what with those rotten orphans absconding at the most inopportune times with that horrid and plump man Mr. Poe…you know, I absolutely detest..."
Abruptly, he walked into the small kitchen, leaving Esme, blinking, standing at the doorway. He silently prepared a cup of tea for himself and, after sighing audibly, inquired, "Would you like one?" He was her hypnotist, taking her out of a trance. She began to walk towards him. "Yes dear, thank you."
They sipped their tea in silence as she studied his face. In his most recent occupation as a gym teacher, he had gone from morbidly pale to just fabulously pale (very in), a fact that made Esme smile. His eyebrow, however, was still as connected as ever (very out), but Esme either didn't notice or decided not to care. She was busy daydreaming of how his pale skin would look with her exceptionally purple cape on Page 6 of the Daily Punctilio until his wheezy voice broke the silence. "Esme, I bet you wondered why I have called you here." She looked up, dumfounded. "To be honest, I didn't quite believe there was a purpose for my visit. After all, we have been apart for so long, and at times, it is simply nice to catch up with a hot cup of tea, and blathering and so on…". Her words faded as she noticed documents on the table. His cracked, yellowing nail, attached to his long finger, nudged them towards her. The title of the packet read "Orphan Adoption Form".
"I don't understand…" her voice stammered, her eyes searching. "I admit, adoption is very in right now, but my lifestyle certainly doesn't involve taking care of a child. Particularly those melancholy unprivileged ones. They are so dreary and, although darkness will soon be in, I don't think sadness will be in as well." Olaf took her hand and she shuddered, her nostrils opening to invite his familiar stench, a mixture of mold and body odor, into her being. He croaked, "Esme, I want you to adopt the Baudelaire orphans. Although I have managed to get them under the care of those I predict to be susceptible to my charm, those wretched orphans have always managed to evade me. However, with you as their guardian, I will finally able to control them and get my hands on…" Esme's shrill voice pierced the desolate, silent home. "What about my sugar bowl?" Esme Squalor was under the impression that Beatrice Baudelaire, mother to the orphans, stole her prized sugar bowl; she had been desperate for its safe return since the moment she noticed it was gone. Olaf's tea saucer slammed onto the table, cracking. Flinching, Esme shifted away from him. Like a storm, Olaf thundered, "Must you always bring up that damned sugar bowl!? You don't know who stole that from you. I don't blame the thief; you brought it out at such a childish event, a tea party… if you cannot take care of important things such as a vessel for disaccharides, maybe you shouldn't have one at all!"
The kitchen was silent.
Esme stared blindly into the distance. The window, darkened by layers and layers of dust and scum, had the potential to beautify the house with a nice clean to get rid of the dirt and a dark cloth to cover the outside, creating a dark (about to be very in) oasis. Esme pondered the changes she would make to the house when she lived there; she would first change the tattered black curtains (very out) into velvet burgundy ones (very in). She contemplated wiping down the dirty counters with cleaning solution, but would eventually rule against it, fearing that Olaf's fetor would fade away. For all its dust and mold, dirt and scum, it was Olaf's presence that gave this habitation an otherworldly allure. Despite the fact that this house was overwhelmingly out, Esme Squalor couldn't stay away.
Olaf's wheeze brought her back to reality. He looked into her eyes; his eyes were glossy, a magnetic pull. "Esme, will you say yes? Will you adopt the Baudelaire orphans?" She stood and looked down at him. "Well, my apartment is not suitable for children. The apartments on Dark Avenue are much too nice for the sticky hands and snotty noses of little rugrats. I guess I must clear it with Jerome… he will care for them, of course, but I doubt he would challenge his meaningless existence to fight for anything worthwhile…Orphans are also very in, which works well in my favor." She paused, staring into Olaf's pleading eyes. "It if means a lot to you, my love, then I will of course oblige."
In a swift moment, he stood. His long, thin hand slid under her cape; the goosebumps on her back raised at the touch of his cold fingers. His scraggly beard, with bits of food trapped inside, grazed her body as his head tilted down. For a split second, Esme Squalor and Count Olaf kissed. His chapped and worn lips momentarily connected with her smooth, purple (very in) lips. Esme stepped closer to him, trying to capture this moment forever, as Olaf quickly stepped away.
He walked down the musty corridor and into a large sitting room and sat behind an antique desk. Littered with newspapers, a small vile lay on the escritoire. Esme pattered behind him and decided to sit across the room on an understuffed floral couch (very out). In the room were Olaf's cronies and her old troupe-mates: the Bald Man, the Hook-Handed Man, the person Who Looks like Neither a Man nor a Woman, and the Powder Faced Women. She contemplated smiling cordially at them, but decided against it, seeing how beautiful the power faced women looked with their purple clothing (very in) and feeling a twinge of jealousy. Instead, she broke the silence and asked, "Olaf, what in the world is in that delicate vile?" Smiling dastardly, Olaf pick it up in his extended hands and replied, "Only the venom of the Mamba du Mal. It was in the reptile room of that bothersome amiable man, Dr. Montgomery Montgomery." Esme smiled, recalling him fondly. "How is he, Dr. Montgomery?" Olaf looked at her, "Dead".
He turned to his noteworthy accomplices and they all turned to look at their troupe-leader. "We must begin preparations for our next performance. After all, after the bureaucratic dimwits file these papers, the Baudelaires will soon be shuttled off to 708 Grim Place. Esme, what can you tell us about your apartment, 958…". Esme, abrasively, interrupted.
"My dear, dear Olaf, I live at 667 Dark Avenue. It is quite beautiful, and the wait to get an apartment on Dark Avenue was quite long. However, Jerome and I pulled some strings. Let me see- it is at the top of some magnificent stairs, our decór is always in but definitely must be renovated soon, as what is 'in' and 'out' changes so frequently. The apartment itself is quite spacious, with enough room for guests...and there is the most, dare I say, quaint ersatz elevator…"