Scripted

six

six

The sweet aroma coming from the paper bag made its way up into my nostrils, and I huffed it like I was snorting cocaine (which I would NEVER do—just for the record). I smiled down at the large bag, and made my way back into my room where my computer was all set up on my bed. Netflix was already pulled up, and I couldn’t wait to continue onto my next episode of The Office, which I had slowly but surely been watching over the past few months. With my busy schedule and the rate that I was going, I estimated that I’d finish the nine seasoned series by the time I was fifty (I was only on season five, now).

           I plopped down on my bed, pressed play, and then began to dig into the bag. Food. It was such a wonderful thing. Tonight, I had ordered Chinese food, and the little old man who had delivered it couldn’t care less who I was. He just wanted a big tip. It was a refreshing experience than the drooling pizza boys that I was used to. Anyways, I had my egg rolls, rice, scallion pancakes, Chow Mein, and teriyaki chicken. I was all set to go.

           As the opening scene of Dwight and Jim played on my laptop screen, I took a bite out of one my fried rolls of goodness, and smiled. If I could live this way—eating Chinese food as I watched TV in my room—all the time, then I totally would. Alas, in order to maintain the lifestyle I had to make money to pay for my Chinese food, my Netflix bill, the power than charged my computer, and rent for my apartment. Which meant going out in public and being Mason Grey’s girlfriend.

           Just as the credit song began to play and I got really excited as I bit into a piece of skewered chicken, the front door buzzed. At first I ignored it, not having tolerance for any inhabitants of the world right now (I was in my happy place, and I didn’t want anyone screwing with that), but then it began to buzz insistently, meaning that I actually had to face the individual on the other side. Sighing, I got up from my bed with my chicken in hand, and walked out to the front room, where the door was located.

           I glimpsed through the handy dandy peephole, and groaned at the person on the other side. “I’m not letting you in!” I shouted, knowing that they could hear me.

           “Fine,” the other person replied. I was surprised that they had given up so easily, but then I remembered something very important as the doorknob twisted from the other side: they had a key. An attractive boy who went by the name of “Mason” strolled into my apartment like he paid the rent (which he kind of did ‘cause he was sort of my employer and all). “Thanks for giving me a key, Natty!”

           “Don’t mention it,” I grumbled, taking an angry bite of my chicken.

           Mason looked me up and down, and couldn’t help but smirk. “Loving the outfit,” he said smugly.

           I glanced down at my pink cupcake pajama pants and camisole, and then shrugged. Instead of getting annoyed that he had pointed out my obviously idiotic attire, I tried not to react, knowing that that would get to him more. Besides, I could totally rock the casual look. I was a model, after all. Just because I was wearing PJs did not mean that my face and body were suddenly hideous—it just meant that I wouldn’t be caught dead in public while wearing the clothes.

           “Why are you here?” I demanded, really wanting to just kick him out so that I could return to my evening of blissful serenity (aka Chinese food and Netflix).

           “Why are you holding speared chicken?” he countered back, referencing my beloved food.

           “Touché,” I replied. “But seriously, Mason, why are you here?”