Wednesday Noir
I wake up on Wednesday, my day off from classes, at 8, intending to get a lot done. I have some things to prepare for my birthday party on Sunday, some notes from class to put in order and maybe even look into some internships for the summer. I check my phone for messages and read back through Maureen Johnson’s tweets from the night before: my usual routine.
But I can’t get started with my day. For there is a man asleep on the floor of my living room.
I delay the inevitable as long as I can. I shower, get dressed, tidy my room, but my need for the first caffeine fix of the day is gradually creeping in. I know that if I run into anyone at this stage, I’ll be about as civil as a startled honey-badger, so I stay in my room and watch some tv. But it’s no use; 11 o’clock rolls toward me like the reset on a morphine drip and I resolve to disturb our slumbering guest.
“Eleven o’clock is plenty late enough,” I say to myself. “Tomorrow it’ll be seven*, so he’d better get used to it.”
I leave my room, clutching my oversized coffee mug, purchased the day before for £2, special sale at Sainsbury’s. The living room door is closed, and still dark. No sign yet, then. I rap sharply on the door with my knuckles. Tap tap tap.
No answer.
I knock again. Still nothing. As soon as I prise the door open with only the slightest of squeaks I hear the steady rising and falling breath of someone deep in sleep. “Ah,” I think, “This is my opportunity: he can’t be mad at me if he’s ASLEEP!” and sneak through the living room into our tiny corridor of a kitchen.
Our kitchen makes those of dolls’ houses look palatial, and it’s as much as I can do not to simply knock over the double leaning towers of both clean and dirty dishes and negate the whole ninja-esque exercise. Right, I think, regaining my balance, where was I? Ah, that’s right: TEA.
Fuck, the kettle’s way too noisy, that’ll definitely disturb him. I stumble on an idea, though, and quietly fill the coffee machine. Silently, I switch it on, and brace myself for the roar…
But it seems even the congested snarl of the machine as it pumps water through the coffee grounds won’t stir our comatose friend. I shrug, and sit on the floor prising failed meringue (I forgot to line the tray) into my mouth with a knife. I don’t want to stay so long as to cook something but my stomach growls and moans, stopping just short of growing appendages to fend for itself, and meringue, while delicious, is not going to satisfy its demands. I put the meringue away, and open the fridge, searching for something to nibble. I’ve already spent my food budget this week, so no popping to the shop for a little something, and I’m not in the habit of buying snacks, so all that is left to me are the little ramekins of potted prawns I’ve made for my party. I grab one, and a spoon. Pouring my coffee, and balancing it and the prawns precariously, I head out of the living room, back to my own room. The sleeper still seems oblivious to my presence.
Back in my bedroom, I sit, eating tiny pink crustaceans swathed in a disproportionate amount of butter**, drinking very strong coffee and muttering to myself about the inconvenience of guests in communal areas. But, I concede, at least some have the wisdom to stay asleep in the face of a girl before her caffeine fix.
*I have class at 9, and it’s an hour’s walk. You think you have it hard.
**I’ve never made them before, and the recipe seems to think that there should be about one prawn to every 250g pack of butter.
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laseandre reblogged this from awibee and added:
I… Hold on, wait a while, I have an idea.
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awibee reblogged this from sherlotter
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awkwardjimmy reblogged this from sherlotter and added:
your adventures…
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