Blues

22. Blue Dress

_______

I stare at my naked back in the bathroom mirror with a bumper grin on my face. The guy is a piece of art himself, so it's not a surprise that he innovates the best art I've ever perceived. The tattoo is written in Adine Kirnberg, just like his; however, mine looks more aesthetic, as if it was created with passion, and not just because it has to be done for money. Even though the writing is in black, the letter “B” in the word “Blue” has a Blue Morpho butterfly nestled above it, giving the whole design glamour and delicacy that I never expected to tenant on any part of my body.

After wrapping a towel around my wet body and another on my hair, I walk out of the bathroom to get dressed, determined to get to class earlier than usual. I need to ask Melody about the classes I missed yesterday. Just before I shed the towel, I hear an obtruding voice barging in. “Are you sure you want to do that in front of me?”

I scream, quickly swerving to see the most censurable person I've ever met, comfortably sprawled on my bed, his neck propped up on my pillow. “Jesus, Dylan! You scared the living shit out of me!” I yell, appalled, my heartrate accelerating. “How are you here?”

“I have keys to the whole world.” He winks, before he plunges his nose into my pillow. “God, I wish your personality was as good as you smell.”

“Oh for heaven's sake!”

“There's no such a thing as heaven, and if there's any, don't think you'll be entering it with your barbaric attitude.” He proclaims, his voice sonorous.

Dylan Evans is in my bed! It doesn't matter that he is in it alone. He still looks formidable and captivating, unperturbed as if he's been sleeping in it for a decade now. I gape deliberately at every inch of him with a racing heart and a dry throat until..

Until I descry his shoes buried in my covers.

“Remove your fucking shoes! Now!” I yell.

“Oh come on! It's cleaner than your floor.” He whines, and he's right. His shoes look pristine, but I still insist, until he abandons the bed altogether, leaving it vacant, and me disappointed.

“Whoever gave you the right to enter my room like that?” I ask, putting my hands on my hips.

“Trent's new barbie.” He mutters, palpating my stuff on the dresser, before he grabs my iPod.

“Who?” I question, dumbfounded, before I realize whom he's talking about. “Hannah is with Trent now?” I blat.

“No, silly. They're not together. They're fucking.”

“Fucking?” I ask, mouth open.

“Sex. Copulating​. Intercourse. Coupling. Coit-”

“I know what fucking is!” I interject. “I hope I don't search for a new place soon.” I sigh.

“You can stay with me, and we can copulate every day.” He winks at me.

I snigger. “Tempting, but thanks.”

Dylan goes through my playlist, before he stops and eyes me with a hefted eyebrow. “I'm a woman by Deborah Coleman? Do you have that song to convince yourself of some myth?”

I cross my arms, goggling at him with frigid enmity, and his eyes plop to my pushed-up breasts, glistering unabashedly. “I take that back. I can see why you have that song now.”

I shake my head at his lunacy, grabbing the clothes I prepared before I took a shower, and waltz into the bathroom, hearing him yelling, “What a beautiful tat! Bless the artist who did it.”