They were at it again. The piano thumped out the catchy tune of the wartime song in the background, but the girl slumped on the sofa, chin in hand, barely noticed. The rollicking music swirled into the room, trying to get into her head and lift her spirits, but she refused to let it in. The Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming. She hated that verse. Forcing herself from the nest in the faded tweed, she wandered toward the clamorous voices. If she hid forever, there would be questions. Painful questions better left unspoken. They hardly noticed when she walked in. Crowded around the instrument, jostling back and forth with unconcealed pleasure, she could see that her intrusion would be unwelcome. So she stayed in the doorway, leaning against the frame until the song finished with a roar of laughter and clapping. She was the odd one out.
I may be inspired to continue this, or just leave it for your interpretation. xo, Ella