Pomegranate Sixteen: An Order.
Author: Omelettes
Rating: G (Nothing you wouldn't let Granny see, mostly.)
Challenge: Pomegranate #16 (An Order)
Word Count: 996
Tale: Ben Zombie's Life Gets Better. ( Index)
A/N: Right after Pom Sixteen. Sorry I haven't posted lately. School this semester is, though enjoyable, taxing. As it is I still have two British epics to read by yesterday. And, by the way, this scene is where I got the whole coffeemaker-for-an-image thing.
Austin sees the world as a great big adventure wrapped in a mystery sandwich, he tells me during his lunch break one day.
A week goes by, and another; I buy Sin new clothes and help her apply for ZalMart-a condition of our cohabitation to which she only reluctantly agrees-and she makes no further romantic advances. This is for better, I feel, for now; with romantic feelings come not only unrealistic expectations, but those deceivingly realistic ones which slip far too easily away and take with them the few moments of our lives we do live.
My life is no longer the calm affair to which I was accustomed. Sin is not a quiet roommate; she constantly interrupts my personal time to make me play children's boardgames, or massage her back, or pour her a glass of milk or tea, or watch TV with her because it's no fun watching it alone; and I wonder, every now and then, if it's really alright, this. Being with her occasionally sets my stomach to fits of butterflies and knots. Then I tell myself nothing can come of it, and my chest aches.
I feel trapped in my room each morning until she knocks on the door to ask for breakfast; the living room is her domain, and I'm always afraid of walking in at the wrong moment. She tells me not to worry about it. I still do.
Pacing quietly in my simple bedroom one morning-a small computer table in the left corner with a metal stool with its signature imprints in the carpet, a single-mattress bed against the back wall and a night stand with toiletries next to it, and, of course, on the remaining wall my closet with everything sorted in stacked plastic drawers-I hear her yell.
I immediately intrude. I find her on the sofa quite frustrated with a broken coffeemaker I usually keep under the sink.
“WHY,” she vents, “WILL THIS STUPID COFFEE THINGY... NOT... MAKE... COFFEE?” She slams the thing against the sofa's soft cushion three times.
I stand in the doorway with my arms crossed.
“I'm fixing your coffee thingy,” she says without looking up.
“You were going to make coffee?” I ask, skeptical.
“Yes. I can make coffee.” Sin stands and holds the coffee machine up to the light. Her hair is a poofy mess. “I didn't fall asleep until three and I need to be awake for my interview today. Why is your machine broken?”
I shrug. “Machines break. I get my coffee at the store's McZonald's now. Iced coffee is better in any case.”
She shrugs back, sets the coffeemaker on the couch, and walks to the front door. “Well, come on and take me to ZalMart, then.”
“You ought to shower first,” I tell her.
“I showered yesterday,” she whines. I can't tell if she's joking or not.
I stare.
Her lips quiver; she dons puppy-dog eyes.
I sigh. “I swear, Sin, I have no idea how you got by before.”
“I'm codependent,” she says gleefully. Different people have drastically different ways of bringing up things they don't want to talk about.
“I've gathered,” I say. “Codependent girls still have to take showers. You look terrible. If the CSM giving you the interview sees you like that, you won't be hired.”
She frowns.
I point at the bathroom door. “Go.”
She pouts, but nonetheless marches to the pantry for her little blue basket of toiletries and her towel and a change of clothes, and heads off to shower.
I pick up the coffeemaker and return it to its place.
Homemade coffee, I consider. I could save some money.
I return to my room, shave, and boot up my computer.
When I am not using my computer, I turn it off. Austin sometimes makes fun of me for this, but he envies my discipline.
In any case, my computer boots quickly enough.
I log in and open up Mojilla Zirefox and type “http://www.zomnictionary.com” in the address bar and take the first baby steps of a month-long journey toward enlightenment in the way of home appliance repair.
“I can't do this,” she says. I take my precious time doing an item inquiry on a jug of milk she's brought to my register.
The store isn't crowded at this hour. She is not, therefore, hampering my ability to help any customers. This is... okay.
“You're right,” I say. “You can't.”
She rolls her eyes. “That's not helpful, Ben.”
“You are dressed well today,” I tell her. “Think about that.”
She raises her shoulders and forces a grin and croaks a “Thanks, Ben.” She has on a black long-sleeved button-up, soft black pants, and a pair of heels. The first two of these I had to iron for her, on account of Sin's utter inability to fold clothes to save her life.
At the moment she has the posture of a deer caught in headlights. This won't do.
“You are,” I reiterate. And without thinking, “You look beautiful.”
“You're just saying that.” Cynthia looks down, and blushes a bit. “I've watched you cashier. You don't even distinguish between the attractive girls and the ugly ones.”
“Milk is two dollars and thirty-four cents,” I tell her as 41-year-old saxophone private lesson teacher Mr. Harold Bane, the single father of polyzygotic twins, gets in line behind her.
She crosses her arms. “$2.34? I am not paying that much for a jug of milk.” She smiles. “You go ahead and put that milk back for me, Mr. Zombie. Have a nice day.”
She walks around behind my register, headed back into the store, and before I begin to ring up Mr. Bane, I turn and whisper to her, “Both the attractive girls and the ugly ones pall in comparison today.”
And I mean it.
Rating: G (Nothing you wouldn't let Granny see, mostly.)
Challenge: Pomegranate #16 (An Order)
Word Count: 996
Tale: Ben Zombie's Life Gets Better. ( Index)
A/N: Right after Pom Sixteen. Sorry I haven't posted lately. School this semester is, though enjoyable, taxing. As it is I still have two British epics to read by yesterday. And, by the way, this scene is where I got the whole coffeemaker-for-an-image thing.
Austin sees the world as a great big adventure wrapped in a mystery sandwich, he tells me during his lunch break one day.
A week goes by, and another; I buy Sin new clothes and help her apply for ZalMart-a condition of our cohabitation to which she only reluctantly agrees-and she makes no further romantic advances. This is for better, I feel, for now; with romantic feelings come not only unrealistic expectations, but those deceivingly realistic ones which slip far too easily away and take with them the few moments of our lives we do live.
My life is no longer the calm affair to which I was accustomed. Sin is not a quiet roommate; she constantly interrupts my personal time to make me play children's boardgames, or massage her back, or pour her a glass of milk or tea, or watch TV with her because it's no fun watching it alone; and I wonder, every now and then, if it's really alright, this. Being with her occasionally sets my stomach to fits of butterflies and knots. Then I tell myself nothing can come of it, and my chest aches.
I feel trapped in my room each morning until she knocks on the door to ask for breakfast; the living room is her domain, and I'm always afraid of walking in at the wrong moment. She tells me not to worry about it. I still do.
Pacing quietly in my simple bedroom one morning-a small computer table in the left corner with a metal stool with its signature imprints in the carpet, a single-mattress bed against the back wall and a night stand with toiletries next to it, and, of course, on the remaining wall my closet with everything sorted in stacked plastic drawers-I hear her yell.
I immediately intrude. I find her on the sofa quite frustrated with a broken coffeemaker I usually keep under the sink.
“WHY,” she vents, “WILL THIS STUPID COFFEE THINGY... NOT... MAKE... COFFEE?” She slams the thing against the sofa's soft cushion three times.
I stand in the doorway with my arms crossed.
“I'm fixing your coffee thingy,” she says without looking up.
“You were going to make coffee?” I ask, skeptical.
“Yes. I can make coffee.” Sin stands and holds the coffee machine up to the light. Her hair is a poofy mess. “I didn't fall asleep until three and I need to be awake for my interview today. Why is your machine broken?”
I shrug. “Machines break. I get my coffee at the store's McZonald's now. Iced coffee is better in any case.”
She shrugs back, sets the coffeemaker on the couch, and walks to the front door. “Well, come on and take me to ZalMart, then.”
“You ought to shower first,” I tell her.
“I showered yesterday,” she whines. I can't tell if she's joking or not.
I stare.
Her lips quiver; she dons puppy-dog eyes.
I sigh. “I swear, Sin, I have no idea how you got by before.”
“I'm codependent,” she says gleefully. Different people have drastically different ways of bringing up things they don't want to talk about.
“I've gathered,” I say. “Codependent girls still have to take showers. You look terrible. If the CSM giving you the interview sees you like that, you won't be hired.”
She frowns.
I point at the bathroom door. “Go.”
She pouts, but nonetheless marches to the pantry for her little blue basket of toiletries and her towel and a change of clothes, and heads off to shower.
I pick up the coffeemaker and return it to its place.
Homemade coffee, I consider. I could save some money.
I return to my room, shave, and boot up my computer.
When I am not using my computer, I turn it off. Austin sometimes makes fun of me for this, but he envies my discipline.
In any case, my computer boots quickly enough.
I log in and open up Mojilla Zirefox and type “http://www.zomnictionary.com” in the address bar and take the first baby steps of a month-long journey toward enlightenment in the way of home appliance repair.
“I can't do this,” she says. I take my precious time doing an item inquiry on a jug of milk she's brought to my register.
The store isn't crowded at this hour. She is not, therefore, hampering my ability to help any customers. This is... okay.
“You're right,” I say. “You can't.”
She rolls her eyes. “That's not helpful, Ben.”
“You are dressed well today,” I tell her. “Think about that.”
She raises her shoulders and forces a grin and croaks a “Thanks, Ben.” She has on a black long-sleeved button-up, soft black pants, and a pair of heels. The first two of these I had to iron for her, on account of Sin's utter inability to fold clothes to save her life.
At the moment she has the posture of a deer caught in headlights. This won't do.
“You are,” I reiterate. And without thinking, “You look beautiful.”
“You're just saying that.” Cynthia looks down, and blushes a bit. “I've watched you cashier. You don't even distinguish between the attractive girls and the ugly ones.”
“Milk is two dollars and thirty-four cents,” I tell her as 41-year-old saxophone private lesson teacher Mr. Harold Bane, the single father of polyzygotic twins, gets in line behind her.
She crosses her arms. “$2.34? I am not paying that much for a jug of milk.” She smiles. “You go ahead and put that milk back for me, Mr. Zombie. Have a nice day.”
She walks around behind my register, headed back into the store, and before I begin to ring up Mr. Bane, I turn and whisper to her, “Both the attractive girls and the ugly ones pall in comparison today.”
And I mean it.