no police – doja cat
I wake up. It's a Saturday. I don't have to.
Maybe it's Étienne breathing down my neck that wakes me.
I inspect my head, rolling the ball of my index on my temples in a circular motion. I sweep my tangled hair away from my face. I check my cheek for drool, before turning.
Okay, my bed is a twin sized one. Therefore, fitting a heavy 6-foot and plus inches giant with toss-to-turn sleeper... doesn't fit.
"Étienne," I call, hoping my morning breath doesn't repulse him too much.
His head sinks further in my down pillow. I feel a little annoyed that I slept without a pillow. I raise a brow and pout.
I reach for the pillow and yank it from underneath his head. I then watch him roll and groan.
"You need to stop sleeping with me. It's unprofessional," I quote my favourite soap opera, although the context is way off.
He grins, shading his eyes from the morning light with his arm. Although I nervously joke about it all the time, it's beginning to bother me.
It doesn't feel like having a sleepover with a boy, which isn't usual on its own. It's starting to get weird.
He lies there on his back, no shirt on. I'm forced to get a good view of his armpit hair. It's only fair if he meets the shaven hairs in the bathtub or pads rolled in the garbage or whatever. He's accidently stepped in wax. I've accidently used his toothbrush.
It's getting weird now.
"Sorry," he seeks forgiveness, "The sofa's lumpy."
"You..." I stop talking and think, "You get a key, and now you think you rule this place?"
He lifts his arm and looks me over.
"You're wearing my favourite shirt," he says the obvious and changes the subject simultaneously.
"Uh," I say, rolling my eyes, "It was the first thing I grabbed when I came in."
"Where were you last night, anyway?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" I retort slowly.
"It's just you don't usually come in late," he shrugs, showing me he doesn't actually want to know.
"Were you missing me?" I give him puppy eyes.
"Même pas," he answers in French.
I just stare at him blankly.
"Go make me breakfast," I command, "I want pancakes."
He does make pretty good pancakes. But he only grins at me, while getting up.
"I'm making a protein shake. You can have that," he tells me, as he makes his way to the kitchen.
I watch him pop toast in the toaster. It's a ritual, yes.
"Ew, no!" I disagree.
He then heads into the bathroom and showers. I regret not going first. Now, I won't have any warm water. I think of being evil and turning the tap in the kitchen to spite him. But it stays a thought.
There's a knock at the door. I jump off my bed and walk up. The cold air running up my legs reminds me that I'm not wearing leggings... and that I didn't turn on the heating. I pull the hem of Étienne's shirt down as much as it can stretch. I slide the chain loose and turn the knob.
I come face to face with none other than J.
I frown at his presence. He's dressed in black denim and a black shirt.
"Good morning," he smirks at me.
"Good mor—What are you doing here?" I ask him, trying not to seem too confused, but rather curious.
I raise my hand over my mouth, just in case he has a good sense of smell.
He shrugs, "I didn't know when you left George's party. I just wanted to see if you made it home."
Half of me is like, 'damn, that's sweet.' He must have showed up a lot later, because I don't recall bumping into him. The other half is drowning in my conflicting thoughts. My face gels over. I give him a short smile, then soon bite it off. I hold the door carefully. One ear listens to the shower running in the bathroom.
"Yeah, I'm here," I say nonchalantly.
He stands there nonetheless. I keep my eyes locked on his.
"Aren't you going to let me in?" he asks, his lop sided lips lop even more.
I open my mouth, stalling for a response. Does he think I'm easy or what?
"I already have a man... in here," I say in a hush.
Great, now I sound like a whore, I think to myself. I want to smack myself. I should have said something cleverer. His eyes travel down my toes and up my head.
"I don't believe you," he challenges.
I blink, not knowing how to make sense of this conversation. Maybe he believes I'm some goody-goody girl or something. I like challenges.
I shake my head a bit, "I wasn't trying to prove anything."
"Oh, it's just that you pretend a lot. I don't know if you're lying," he explains, condescending.
I shift my weight on one leg and fold my arms across my chest. I put on my attitude face, that I've inherited from my mother.
"Please. I may be pretentious. But you don't know me. So don't you dare find time to call me a liar."
Suddenly, the door swings right open—all the way. I jump, ready to fight the ghost. But freshly washed Étienne stands there instead. My shoulders stay stuck up to my ears. I probably look as though I've seen a ghost. I don't feel blood pumping to my head. Shat! Shat!
"Can I help you?" Étienne asks, like there would be something to help with.
Maybe I had raised my voice, making him come over here. J shoots me a quick 'right' glance, smiling. Well, this isn't good. I cower, looking away. Mortification tints my face, my aura, my soul.
He then decides to answer, "I'll let you know."
I watch J leisurely walk off. I slowly turn to Étienne.
"Who told you can waltz in my conversations like that?"
He motions his chin towards the direction, in which J disappeared, beyond the hallway.
"I didn't like the way he was talking to you."
I watch him shake his T-shirt, before pulling it over his head. I'm ready to punch him, while he's not looking. But my fists don't move.
"You were listening?" I ask, angered.
"Not exactly," he turns and sits in the futon.
"Not exactly?" I question for more specificity.
He sighs and says, "I just don't like that guy."
I direct my freshly washed attitude his way, now. My head tilts.
"Oh? You know him?"
"Wish I didn't," he murmurs.
I pause, not wanting to argue anymore, because it sounds silly. But I'm a girl notorious for sounding silly.
"Really? How?" I ask.
Étienne leans back in the futon. His eyes look as though they're going to a dark place.
"He's the guy my girlfriend was fucking."
My shoulders fall. Speechless, I watch Étienne turn on the TV, and get lost as soon as he turns on his video game. I make several attempts to say a word, but nothing goes past my vocal chords. The shadows shrink. Part of me feels disgusted that I fell so fast for a player. Part of me wants to comfort Étienne. Part of me desperately wants to take a shower.
But there's no warm water.
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