fic: Not Enough (Rent)
Title: Not Enough
Wordcount: 685
Date Written: September 26, 2004
A/N: Originally posted on Fanfiction.net under screenname "ReticentSurprise." All feedback very much appreciated.
-------
I turn the water spout all the way over to HOT. I step in only after letting it run long enough to get the rust out.
Just as I expect. Lukewarm with spurts of alternating scalding and freezing. The best New York City can offer. Fan-fucking-tastic. What I need is a long time under a boiling stream of water until the steam fills not only the bathroom but the entire loft and starts creeping down the stairs.
(Keep dreaming.)
I sigh and make do. I fully intend to take my time and appreciate being the only one 'home' -- even if that means there will be cold showers the rest of the week. Fuck that. Fuck everyone else in the loft and fuck everyone else in the building. They can deal. They've dealt before.
It's as I'm lathering up that I notice a spider that has begun weaving her home above the showerhead. Not a giant poisonous tarrantula, but not some itsy-bitsy-spider to climb up the water spout either. She's been there for some time.
(A spider in the shower? What the hell?)
I can be forgiven for not noticing. The only times I've been in this shower in recent weeks is when someone -- Roger or Mark usually -- has thrown me in to try and sober me up or I've been in a rush to get to work. The water in my apartment has more reliable temperatures. But it smells lonely. Hence why I'm doing this in this dump that at least reeks of people.
But the others . . . heaven knows no one else in this hellhole has anywhere to go. They'd be gone if they did. Then again, they are guys. They can ignore a roach warming its antennae at their illegal heat source and they can ignore a spider setting up shop above their shower.
And Maureen is probably showering at better places. Like me. Only I'm not cheating on my boyfriend in order to use the facilities. I'm willing to bet that Maureen has washed up in a different bathroom every day this week after sex with a different guy each time. What a whore. Mark is a blind fool. But if he thinks that being used is love then who the hell am I to burst his bubble?
(If using is love . . . )
I gather a handful of water and splash upward in an attept trying to dislodge Charlotte up there. She simply curls her legs into a ball and hangs on. I sprinkle-shake-fling-toss water at her . . . all to no avail. I merely succede in cleaning some grime off the tiles and creating what I'm sure will turn out to be quite an impressive puddle on the floor.
(Must be the luckiest fucking spider in the world.)
I shake my head and finish rinsing the conditioner out of my hair. I feel the water splash around as I move my feet. Reminds me that I put the stopper in the drain before I got in the shower.
(But I have to admire her tenacity.)
I wonder how long she's been there. I wonder how long she'll stay there. I wonder if she'll still be there after everyone is dead.
(I remember why I splurged in hot water in the first place.)
I turn off the water and dry off. Once I'm semi-clothed -- at least decent (never know who'll be coming home first) -- I find an old lipstick of Maureen's in a drawer and scribble a message on the mirror.
"Love you, babe." I whisper to the empty loft. But I somehow can't bring myself to put it in writing and pick up the razor instead.
Three words on the mirror. Three words in the air. Six different words. Two different worlds. One different girl who tries to count the letters as they blur together.
Three words is not enough. But that's more than I've got left.
Wordcount: 685
Date Written: September 26, 2004
A/N: Originally posted on Fanfiction.net under screenname "ReticentSurprise." All feedback very much appreciated.
-------
I turn the water spout all the way over to HOT. I step in only after letting it run long enough to get the rust out.
Just as I expect. Lukewarm with spurts of alternating scalding and freezing. The best New York City can offer. Fan-fucking-tastic. What I need is a long time under a boiling stream of water until the steam fills not only the bathroom but the entire loft and starts creeping down the stairs.
(Keep dreaming.)
I sigh and make do. I fully intend to take my time and appreciate being the only one 'home' -- even if that means there will be cold showers the rest of the week. Fuck that. Fuck everyone else in the loft and fuck everyone else in the building. They can deal. They've dealt before.
It's as I'm lathering up that I notice a spider that has begun weaving her home above the showerhead. Not a giant poisonous tarrantula, but not some itsy-bitsy-spider to climb up the water spout either. She's been there for some time.
(A spider in the shower? What the hell?)
I can be forgiven for not noticing. The only times I've been in this shower in recent weeks is when someone -- Roger or Mark usually -- has thrown me in to try and sober me up or I've been in a rush to get to work. The water in my apartment has more reliable temperatures. But it smells lonely. Hence why I'm doing this in this dump that at least reeks of people.
But the others . . . heaven knows no one else in this hellhole has anywhere to go. They'd be gone if they did. Then again, they are guys. They can ignore a roach warming its antennae at their illegal heat source and they can ignore a spider setting up shop above their shower.
And Maureen is probably showering at better places. Like me. Only I'm not cheating on my boyfriend in order to use the facilities. I'm willing to bet that Maureen has washed up in a different bathroom every day this week after sex with a different guy each time. What a whore. Mark is a blind fool. But if he thinks that being used is love then who the hell am I to burst his bubble?
(If using is love . . . )
I gather a handful of water and splash upward in an attept trying to dislodge Charlotte up there. She simply curls her legs into a ball and hangs on. I sprinkle-shake-fling-toss water at her . . . all to no avail. I merely succede in cleaning some grime off the tiles and creating what I'm sure will turn out to be quite an impressive puddle on the floor.
(Must be the luckiest fucking spider in the world.)
I shake my head and finish rinsing the conditioner out of my hair. I feel the water splash around as I move my feet. Reminds me that I put the stopper in the drain before I got in the shower.
(But I have to admire her tenacity.)
I wonder how long she's been there. I wonder how long she'll stay there. I wonder if she'll still be there after everyone is dead.
(I remember why I splurged in hot water in the first place.)
I turn off the water and dry off. Once I'm semi-clothed -- at least decent (never know who'll be coming home first) -- I find an old lipstick of Maureen's in a drawer and scribble a message on the mirror.
"Love you, babe." I whisper to the empty loft. But I somehow can't bring myself to put it in writing and pick up the razor instead.
Three words on the mirror. Three words in the air. Six different words. Two different worlds. One different girl who tries to count the letters as they blur together.
Three words is not enough. But that's more than I've got left.