“Ouch!” she yelled, jumping off of the oven, pasta pot in hand. The burner glowing red, she turned to look down at her left back pocket. Nope; no harm done – she’d almost expected a swirl-shaped scorch mark on her jeans, like the kind an iron would leave. But, then again, she hadn’t been sitting on the burner for all that long. She laughed, thankful for a lack of witnesses to her stupidity. At least there was no evidence, except for her now literally hot ass. Note to self, she thought, take out all necessary paraphernalia for pasta-making BEFORE turning on stove.
She filled the pot with water and placed it on the burner, taking a moment to stare as the curved surface swayed back and forth. She was the only one in the dorm that evening, cooking by herself, for herself. Her roommate was out with her boyfriend, their weekend guest; her suitemates were at the hookah bar with the boys from next door. And, of course, they didn’t invite her. They never invited her out anymore; but, honestly, she wouldn’t have gone, anyway.
She grabbed an orange off the top of the fridge and dug her thumb nail into the peel. She was halfway through removing the acidic cortex of the fruit before she remembered why she’d stayed in that night to begin with. Her gaze snapped up to the microwave’s digital clock – her laundry had been dry for over an hour. After a quick debate over whether or not to eat the orange before running downstairs, she dropped the scantily-clad produce onto the table, grabbed her keys, and headed for the elevator.
It came quickly, which was unusual since she lived on the fourteenth floor. She pressed C-3 for the basement, and stepped back into the corner, wrapping her hands around the metal bar behind her. The elevator stopped at the ninth floor, but no one was there – the doors opened and closed, and she continued the descent. At the seventh floor, the elevator halted again; this time, she was joined by a boy, followed closely by his girlfriend. Or what looked like a girlfriend. I wonder if they’re even together; I wonder how often they fuck. She glanced over at the couple, specifically noting the appearance of the girl and simultaneously trying very hard not to show her disgust. Is that the only way to meet people around here? she wondered. Dressing like that? Whatever happened to modesty? For enjoying a girl’s company for who she was, not how little her dress is or how big her…
BUMP! C-3.
The elevator landed somewhat harder than usual, and she quickly stepped forward to keep her balance, thankful for the bar behind her. She shuffled out of the elevator, suddenly very aware of the presence of her fuzzy slippers.
Oh, well. Everyone wears slippers down here. And if I’m quick, no one will notice, anyway.
In a few seconds, she was in the laundry room, grabbing her laundry basket off of the side table she’d set it on almost two hours before. The dryer she’d used had been the only one available at the time—stacked on top of a second dryer, it was not so convenient for someone as vertically challenged as she; but she was impatient, and always too prideful. She yanked open the door to the dryer and blindly reached, grabbing at the contents and throwing it into the basket below. Once she’d finished, she closed the dryer door, and headed back upstairs.
Ignoring the orange on the table, she walked straight into her room and dumped her laundry out onto her bed. She always started by folding the larger pieces—shirts, jeans, towels—before beginning to sort out the rest. It wasn’t until now, as she made a pile of underwear and another of socks, that she noticed what she was missing.
If she could name anything in the world, anything, as her number one pet peeve, it would be losing socks. Especially cute socks. After all, a cute sock without its double is useless; even depressing. She wouldn’t want to get rid of it; it’s too adorable! But it’s not like she could wear just one sock—if you wear one sock, obviously you need another (unless its 4th grade clash day and you’re wearing a sneaker and a flip-flop.) But, at the same time, she couldn’t wear it with any other sock – not only would that severely aggravate her OCD, but, really, it would just look silly. Matching cute socks are one thing, but wearing one sock with a happy bunny and another with a fish…? Um, no. Plus, these were her little white socks with the surf-boarding monkeys on them. They were awesome! No way was she going to give one up without an intense hunt and bloody battle.
Determined, she bolted for the basement.
She reached C-3, bounced out of the elevator and sprinted across the common area into the laundry room. She turned the corner quickly, but, as her dryer came into sight, she stopped…
In front of her open dryer stood a boy, maybe six feet tall, and in one hand, he held a little white monkey sock. In the midst of withdrawing his other hand from the dryer, he turned around to face her. He smirked. There, in his emerging hand, she saw them: a pair of rather small, pink, and very lacy panties. “Are these yours?”
“Um…” Oh, god. She held out her hand: “Here.” Still smirking, with one eyebrow raised, he placed the sock and the underwear into her hand. “Thanks,” she muttered, and shuffled out.
Face bright red, she smacked at the elevator button. Miss. She smacked it again, so hard that she broke the little light behind it – it flickered and died. She sighed, and crumpled the underwear up into her palm.
Fuck, she thought. I am awkward.
NS 09.09.09
She filled the pot with water and placed it on the burner, taking a moment to stare as the curved surface swayed back and forth. She was the only one in the dorm that evening, cooking by herself, for herself. Her roommate was out with her boyfriend, their weekend guest; her suitemates were at the hookah bar with the boys from next door. And, of course, they didn’t invite her. They never invited her out anymore; but, honestly, she wouldn’t have gone, anyway.
She grabbed an orange off the top of the fridge and dug her thumb nail into the peel. She was halfway through removing the acidic cortex of the fruit before she remembered why she’d stayed in that night to begin with. Her gaze snapped up to the microwave’s digital clock – her laundry had been dry for over an hour. After a quick debate over whether or not to eat the orange before running downstairs, she dropped the scantily-clad produce onto the table, grabbed her keys, and headed for the elevator.
It came quickly, which was unusual since she lived on the fourteenth floor. She pressed C-3 for the basement, and stepped back into the corner, wrapping her hands around the metal bar behind her. The elevator stopped at the ninth floor, but no one was there – the doors opened and closed, and she continued the descent. At the seventh floor, the elevator halted again; this time, she was joined by a boy, followed closely by his girlfriend. Or what looked like a girlfriend. I wonder if they’re even together; I wonder how often they fuck. She glanced over at the couple, specifically noting the appearance of the girl and simultaneously trying very hard not to show her disgust. Is that the only way to meet people around here? she wondered. Dressing like that? Whatever happened to modesty? For enjoying a girl’s company for who she was, not how little her dress is or how big her…
BUMP! C-3.
The elevator landed somewhat harder than usual, and she quickly stepped forward to keep her balance, thankful for the bar behind her. She shuffled out of the elevator, suddenly very aware of the presence of her fuzzy slippers.
Oh, well. Everyone wears slippers down here. And if I’m quick, no one will notice, anyway.
In a few seconds, she was in the laundry room, grabbing her laundry basket off of the side table she’d set it on almost two hours before. The dryer she’d used had been the only one available at the time—stacked on top of a second dryer, it was not so convenient for someone as vertically challenged as she; but she was impatient, and always too prideful. She yanked open the door to the dryer and blindly reached, grabbing at the contents and throwing it into the basket below. Once she’d finished, she closed the dryer door, and headed back upstairs.
Ignoring the orange on the table, she walked straight into her room and dumped her laundry out onto her bed. She always started by folding the larger pieces—shirts, jeans, towels—before beginning to sort out the rest. It wasn’t until now, as she made a pile of underwear and another of socks, that she noticed what she was missing.
If she could name anything in the world, anything, as her number one pet peeve, it would be losing socks. Especially cute socks. After all, a cute sock without its double is useless; even depressing. She wouldn’t want to get rid of it; it’s too adorable! But it’s not like she could wear just one sock—if you wear one sock, obviously you need another (unless its 4th grade clash day and you’re wearing a sneaker and a flip-flop.) But, at the same time, she couldn’t wear it with any other sock – not only would that severely aggravate her OCD, but, really, it would just look silly. Matching cute socks are one thing, but wearing one sock with a happy bunny and another with a fish…? Um, no. Plus, these were her little white socks with the surf-boarding monkeys on them. They were awesome! No way was she going to give one up without an intense hunt and bloody battle.
Determined, she bolted for the basement.
She reached C-3, bounced out of the elevator and sprinted across the common area into the laundry room. She turned the corner quickly, but, as her dryer came into sight, she stopped…
In front of her open dryer stood a boy, maybe six feet tall, and in one hand, he held a little white monkey sock. In the midst of withdrawing his other hand from the dryer, he turned around to face her. He smirked. There, in his emerging hand, she saw them: a pair of rather small, pink, and very lacy panties. “Are these yours?”
“Um…” Oh, god. She held out her hand: “Here.” Still smirking, with one eyebrow raised, he placed the sock and the underwear into her hand. “Thanks,” she muttered, and shuffled out.
Face bright red, she smacked at the elevator button. Miss. She smacked it again, so hard that she broke the little light behind it – it flickered and died. She sighed, and crumpled the underwear up into her palm.
Fuck, she thought. I am awkward.
NS 09.09.09
No comments:
Post a Comment