t w o
The door opens a while later and I hope that Mikaela’s alone. She isn’t. I can hear her giggles and another masculine voice over the jingling of the keys as she chucks them into the broken ceramic bowl from Pottery Barn we’ve kept near the front door. It’s already accumulated two torn condom foil packets and an empty packet of crisps. Neither of us have been arsed to clean it so far, so it’s just going to collect miscellaneous trash like some kind of overdesigned ugly trash bin till we move out I guess.
I’m still sitting in the darkness staring at static on the TV screen – and I’m the first thing she and her man-friend probably see upon entering. Predictably, the voices hush.
“Oh, uh, that’s my roommate Eve.”
Silence follows for a few seconds.
Oh, that’s just my psychotic roommate Eve who was found naked and half-dead on the beach three months ago and needs antidepressants so she doesn’t kill someone. Nothing to worry about. We can go have a nice fuck in my bedroom as was planned. Nice to meet you.
“Oh. Uh –”
“Don’t worry, she isn’t expecting a greeting.”
So this guy isn’t too eloquent. Typical Mikaela to bring home an illiterate.
“Oh okay. You got anything to drink? I’m parched.”
Parched. Jesus.
“Yeah…I have water. Is that okay?”
He chuckles. “Sure.”
She clearly hasn’t told him about the alcohol crate our TV is sitting on. I’m glad. That Jaeger is mine.
Anyway, I know it’s rude to just be sitting here when Micky and her friend probably want some privacy. It’s getting late too (I have no idea what the time is) so I get up, feeling the blood rush to my legs. I crack my neck and my ankles and I put the TV off. I can hear voices from the kitchen. The music from Jack’s Mausoleum is shaking the floor but I can’t hear it. After I’m done navigating around our boxes to put the lights on, I stand next to the wall, wondering what to do because I’m thirsty and I need water too. Maybe I should just go to the kitchen and ignore Mister I’m Parched.
I do just that because I can’t think of a better alternative. When I walk into the kitchen both eyes flicker to me. Suprisingly neither Micky nor her one night stand look drunk. They’re both holding Tupperware glasses of water in their hands and leaning against the sink. The guy is wearing top-to-toe black and I can see numerous tattoos peeking out under his tight sleeves. That’s enough for me. I look away from his general direction quickly and make my way to our dysfunctional fridge, which is right now serving the modest purpose of a cupboard.
“Hey, Eve,” Mikaela chirps. “Had a good evening?”
Why is she talking to me?
I open the fridge. There’s an empty bottle of Captain Morgan rum filled with water so I take it out.
“It was okay,” I tell her, not looking at her because that would mean looking at the guy. I swig the water straight from the bottle because I’ve forgotten where we decided to keep the glasses and I don’t want to open and close the goddamn cupboards like I don’t know where stuff is when it’s my own goddamn flat. Swigging from the bottle is more badass anyway.
“This is Jake,” Mikaela says. I assume she’s referring to the man with her. Clearly it’s a cue for me to look at him and formally acknowledge his presence. I don’t want to.
