Laurel

 

After walking through the front door of my apartment, I drop my backpack and sigh.

Cardboard boxes are sitting around the living room. They’re in my way and unorderly. Shit, the girls are really moving. I peek in one of the open boxes and see a bunch of DVDs.

“Don’t worry. We didn’t take any of yours. Like we’d wanna watch your boring historical movies,” Sabrina says. Looking up, I find her standing at the doorway to the kitchen.

“When are you moving?”

“Saturday. Jason and his friend are helping us.” Of course, he’s the one. At least I’ll be working at the library and won’t be subjected to his peacocking.

I can picture him now, flexing his muscles while sporting a lethal grin. I imagine sweat dampening his thick blond hair, too, and running down his temple in a manly way.

“Hellooo, Space Cadet,” Sabrina says.

“Huh?”

“I can’t fathom why Jason wants to live here other than he figures you’ll never be home.” Tucking a strand of her strawberry-blond bob behind her ear, she looks at the carpet and smirks. “Or, maybe it’s the fond memories he holds of our sexual encounters on this very floor.”

“Gross. I’ll be sure to steam clean them once you’re gone.” Stomping past her, I go to the kitchen, but something that’s been eating at me for a while now causes me to turn around and march back into the living room.

“Sabrina, do you think you could answer a question with a genuine answer?”

Her eyebrows lift as she pulls the tiny shorts she wears around the apartment out of her ass crack.

“I’ll try?”

“Why do you and Angie dislike me so much?”

“Are you kidding? I think we should be the ones asking you that question. Ever since we moved in, you’ve been bitchy.

“You’re judgmental, criticizing everything we do or say, and you really need to lighten up. Have some damn fun occasionally. It doesn’t make you a bad person.”

I look at the floor, ashamed since she hit the nail on the head.

“Something bad happened right before you two moved in, and it’s why I needed roommates. I’ve been angry at someone, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you and Angie, so I’m sorry.

“But, I do feel you could’ve been more considerate while living here, so I won’t take all the blame.” I shrug. “I do get that I’m no fun. I can’t deny it. Anyway, thanks for answering my question, and I’m sorry I’ve been judgmental.”

Before she can reply, I hurry back to the kitchen. I’m embarrassed, hungry and tired from work. I decide to heat up a can of vegetable soup, and afterward, I take it to my room and shut the door.

Setting the bowl on my nightstand, I pull my laptop out of my backpack, and I’m instantly agitated as I think about the emails I received at lunch today from my poetry class peer.

What an asshole. Why can’t we straight girls just enjoy the dick without having to deal with the brain attached? Dildos aren’t the same.

I picture Jason, and that shouldn’t be the image that pops in my mind while I’m thinking about dildos and dick. What’s happening to me?

“You know you’re going to let him move in, so just get it over with and tell him,” I mumble.

If I don’t let him, I won’t be able to afford the rent. Not to mention, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I had to stare at that breathtaking person every day.

I pull my phone from my pocket to text him.

Me: You can move in once Angie and Sabrina move out.

Jason: It’s about fucking time. Just kidding.

Me: I meant what I said. I don’t want to find you with any strange girls, naked and twisted up like pretzels on my living room floor.

Jason: You only want to find me naked. Noted.

I smack my forehead and smile.

Me: My apartment is not listed on the Meetup app as a gathering for nudists.

Jason: Seriously, I won’t break the rules, and thank you for allowing me to move in.

Me: You’re welcome.

Tossing my phone next to me, I take a sip of my soup and pull up my email. I see that I have a new message from KeepingItReal69.

69 … about a car, my ass. I open the email, and he sent a poem, but our next one isn’t due until Sunday. I swear, this guy’s determined to show me up.

 

To: GutterGirl,

 

A poem about GOLF. I thought you’d enjoy it.

 

The Dew Sweeper

 

I’ll be the first golfer on the quiet teeing ground under the rising sun.

The first one eager to play at the dawn of a new day.

The first to feel the clean-lined, manicured lawn resting beneath my spiked soles.

The first to see the droplets of clear morning dew shining up at me like diamonds over an emerald setting.

The first to hear my ball as it sails through the air and lands two club-lengths away from the ninth hole.

I’ll happily be your dew sweeper.

It means I’m the only one who sees my triple bogeys.

 

What’s a bogey? Pulling up Google, I type in the word and click on a link to a golfing website.

I cover my chest after reading that a triple bogey is not a good thing. Aww, my poetry peer has feelings after all. He’s vulnerable and doesn’t want others to know when he performs poorly.

Tapping my fingers on the keyboard, I ponder how to reply. I also think about what Sabrina said about me in the living room.

 

Dear KeepingItReal69,

 

I’ve come to realize that I was harsh in my previous emails. I figured I ticked you off good when I didn’t even get a sincerely in our last couple of correspondences. I do hope you’ll forgive me.

As far as your poem, I’m quite impressed. You painted a vivid picture of yourself on the golf course. I’m even able to envision the disappointed expression on your face when you’ve scored a triple bogey.

I can imagine you glancing around, relieved that no one was there to witness it, but maybe it would be beneficial for others to be on the course with you.

You know, so you’re reminded of how no one is perfect and definitely not at golf. At least, that’s what I’ve gathered from BRIEFLY watching the boring sport. Maybe I’ll notice the scenery next time, seeing how you explained it so eloquently. Good job.

 

                    Sincerely,

                      ElizabethBennetThe2nd

 

I finish my soup while I wait for a snarky reply.

Ding.

 

DEAR ElizabethBennetThe2nd,

 

Seeing I earned a more sentimental salutation (dear), I must’ve impressed you, but if you think I’m suddenly the sharing type, you’re going to be disappointed in my future poems.

Thank you for the compliment and apology. I hope from here on out we can get along. It’d make the last of this semester more tolerable.

Since I’m AHEAD OF YOU now, I look forward to reading your poem Sunday.

 

                    Sincerely,

                      KeepingItReal69

 

I roll my eyes. It appears I attract smart-asses.