Life is Funny Like That

Nyntine. Just for Smiles

Climbing the steps, Adrian reaches his door and goes to his room. He grabs an extra blanket off the floor along with Irma and plops into bed, leaving his shoes on.

The day fades away with sporadic coughs, a surfacing of a sore throat, and the aches and chills stay for the ride. Colds are the best.

: the next day :

"Bang, bang, you frustrating, gray-haired, old man!" a foreign voice shakes Adrian out of his slumber. 

Taking in a noisy breath with his plugged nose, he jerks up in bed, the ache behind his eyes pushing his head back and forth with the momentum. He clenches his teeth, grasping his head as the voice gets closer, increasing its volume.

"Heard you were sick." One word. Daffy. The intruder passes the door frame, holding up a grocery bag. "Brought tea in case you didn't have any." She stops a few feet away from his bed, a bright smile completing her entrance.

Fighting his sleepy mind, he just stares.

Is Daffy really here? But he turned her down, he told her he didn't like her, he possibly broke her heart. It's really her? Is he hallucinating? His eyes trail all over her, taking in her sundress and strappy sandals. Her toenails are painted a blush pink, just barely chipped at the tips. Is this the first time he's seen her bare feet?

The thought makes his heart hitch for some reason. He brings his eyes back up to hers and he realizes she's really here. In the flesh. The girl he... can't get rid of. Not just emotionally, but physically.

"How did you get in?" he groans, still swimming through the thick haze of sleep, now awake for a whole forty seconds.

"Just because you don't like me, doesn't mean we can't be friends. Kimmy gave me the address. Also the code," she beams. "Now, I'm gonna attempt to make you a cup of tea and ignore how messy your room is."

He glances down at his sun-basked room, cough drop wrappers skewed over the clothing-rug like confetti. A bottle of cold medicine sits on his nightstand, surrounded by piles of used tissues. They are tall enough to block his view of the alarm clock. Actually it's buried at this point.

Noises in the kitchen cause his mind to pause. Strange. It sounds strange. Someone is in his kitchen. For him.

"You have a very weird system of cleaning," Daffy calls. "It's like, there's piles of stuff, and then there... isn't?"

Adrian props himself against his headboard, hugging a pillow as he coughs.

More noises of the microwave and cabinets slamming ensue. In five minutes, Daffy appears in the room, a mug in her hand. 

"There's clean spots and random piles of stuff everywhere. What are you doing?" she chuckles, sitting on the edge of the bed and handing the tea to him.

"I was... sorting," he replies, steam greeting his nose and chin.

When he got home from his dad's, he realized the things he brought with him, when he first moved, were stuffed away in boxes; the things that reminded him too much of his family, like photos, the throw rug his dad bought for him, a key chain Adelaide gave to him. It was all packed away, forgotten.

But having reconciled with his past, he was ready to put that rug to good use, and hook that key chain to his house key.

Steam from the tea envelopes his face as he stares a little to the left of Daffy's shoulder.

She watches him carefully, taking into account his flushed face and coarse voice. Her lips purse. She looks down at the floor, her fingers itching to point at him for making such a mess.