Her name was Antigone Siren Swan, a hippie name to the almost rediculous. Her older sister had been named Luna Moonshine Swan, and every limb, every long strand of silvery hair, every finger that grabbed Samantha's flannel, pulling her away from the train, embodied that name. But Luna was long gone, and all that remained of what was once a sun flowery, Grateful Dead household was Antigone.
She was an almost depressing thing to watch, in Samantha's eyes. Eight years younger than her sister, she'd grown up avoiding the distant memory of a happy household. She was stiff, bleached hair and an orange tan, not a secret left to her little girl body and not a wise thought in her head to make it all worth it. The Siren didn't leave the men grasping at the rocks. Her song was desperate and they would stay for their fill until another song came blasting over the stereo in some other girls' car. Swans would have choked and died in her chlorine haze pool with cracking tiles.
Antigone would have rolled over in her grave if she'd seen her namesake. But her dead older sisters' best friend still took the wayward ruined Alice of a namesake out to breakfast every second saturday of the month. Today, they would talk about The Book Collector.