Just another day in paradise, I think to myself before taking a deep breath and beginning to list five things in my head that I’m grateful for.
A roommate I love. Today is payday. I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive.
Okay, so it is getting a little harder to think of things to be grateful for lately.
I peel my body off the floor. Head, shoulders, back, until I’m finally standing, glancing around my room at the piles of clothes that surround me. I choose a green floral dress and black sweater, smelling them first before shrugging them on.
I emerge into the living room, inhaling the aroma of…no coffee. Malalwaysmakes coffee.
“Mal?! Do I need to put a pot of coffee on?” I ask, swiveling my head around our small space, trying to locate my roommate that is more slender, more graceful, more toned by yoga, and more tanned by the sun than I ever have been in my life.
I peek into her neat, tidy, and sparsely-decorated room and only discover Wonton, our shared yellow cat that is more hers than mine, curled up asleep on her white comforter. We discovered Wonton one evening in a trash can outside the apartment building. He was sitting in a Chinese take-out box, therefore, the name.
“Good morning, Wonton,” I murmur softly.
He doesn’t move.
“I made mushroom coffee this morning, Rach. Want a cup?”
Mal’s gentle presence fills the room when she steps out of the kitchen stirring a coffee mug that apparently contains no coffee.
I met Mallory online. We were both searching for a roommate with our eyes wide and hopeful. She’s from California, and while our apartment technically has a Yonkers zip code, where crime rate and rent rates are both less anxiety-inducing, we formed a kindred bond immediately even though we’re very different people.
I scrunch up my nose at her. “I don’t want coffee made from mushrooms. I want coffee fromcoffeebeans.”
“Coffee will kill you, Rach,” Mal replies as she takes another sip. “I read an article last week about how coffee gives you anxiety and can even disrupt your sleep. If you replace it with mushroom coffee, it makes your brain happy. Don’t you want a happy brain?”
I roll my eyes as I march toward our tiny kitchen to turn the coffee pot on. “My heart won’t be happy if I give it mushrooms instead of coffee.”
Mal tsks. “Have it your way. Also, your phone has been absolutely unhinged with notifications.”
I glance over at my phone sitting on the kitchen counter. While I don’t always appreciate Mal’s advice, especially if it villainizes my coffee, months ago I began keeping my phone plugged in away from my bedroom. Mal said it had something to do with electromagnetic radiation, but I’d been more interested in the fact that it can be less distracting.
The truth is I’d been addicted to checking my phone every single time it buzzed with a notification, keeping me awake until practically dawn. Especially since my fanfiction pieces had gone viral, catapulting me into some strange popularity.
I sink my teeth into my bottom lip as I pour water into the coffee pot. “Anything negative?”
Mal smiles at me softly, understanding that I want her to do a quick scan through the comments before I read too much into what other people have to say. She quickly braids her long black hair with her fingers moving expertly before tying it off and picking up my phone. She swipes my passcode. “Seven hundred thirty-six notifications.”
I watch her eyes sort through the new comments before she adds, “Mostly positive.”
I nod my head. “That’s good.”
“Aww, this one is sweet,” Mal coos. “BonkersforBarrett says,‘Your writing makes my worst days better. I don’t know how you do it, but you make me believe that love can be for me.’”
I feel tension melting away. I hate that I care about what random people on the internet have to say about my writing, but insults remind me of the life I used to know—the one where I was never good enough.
Mal looks up at me with a grin. “See? You’re changing lives with your words.”
I grab my favorite coffee mug. The one with the vibrant yellow sunrise peeking out from a field full of bright pink flowers. It’s one thing I miss in the city. Somehow the city is so big that it shrinks the skies. The sun is swallowed up by skyscrapers and smog.
I nod my head at Mal. “I just…”
“Wish it was your own book with your name down the spine and your heart spilled out on the pages.” She finishes the sentence I’ve said a million times before.
Mal knows my dreams. She believes in them, and that does count for something. I just wish Mal was a literary agent that had connections at a thriving publishing house, or at the very least someone who could raid through the slush piles and discover my four manuscripts that have been rejected.
“It’s only a matter of time, Rach,” she says. “Youarea great writer.”
