"No, you want the chair?"
"I thought I'd sit with you. You look like you could use the company."
Sometimes I feel like I've been in jail for fifty not five years. I didn't realize that women were so forward these days. I mean I definitely was never hurting for female attention, but lately they seem to be coming at me left and right.
"You can sit. Not interested in talking though."
You'd think that would be enough to send her on her way, but the woman sits down anyway with her drink and some sort of disgusting looking brown muffin and starts rambling.
"I'm Patricia."
I give her a head nod and then look back at my phone. I've been spending the last few weeks playing around with apps and on social media sites. Getting familiar with online jargon and laughing at fight videos. These kids are stupid posting videos of themselves fighting and robbing people, and they're not even good at it.
"What kind of drink is that you have?"
I sigh and look back up from my phone. Is she really going to talk me to death?
"Carrot and spinach bomb."
"Oh, that one's healthy. I've got a fruity one. A little more natural sugar in it than yours. I was in the mood for mangos today."
Out of the corner of my eye I see her.
And my body starts to vibrate simply because she is in the building.
She's meeting the guy here after having already worked an overnight shift and is dressed in a pair of purple scrubs, work clogs, and all of her tightly coiled curls are pushed back with some sort of thin gold headband then swept up in a ponytail. When she peels off her parka and places it on the back of her chair, I can't help but salivate at the curves trying to burst their way through her scrubs.
She looks like a snack.
I throw the hood of my Target brand navy blue hoodie up and take another sip of my juice. My table mate continues to ramble on about something. The price of gas or the new construction on the corner of Chestnut Street. I'm not really sure, and it doesn't even fucking matter, because I can't keep my eyes off of Ariana.
She keeps looking out the front window for what I suppose is dickhead biker, but am proven wrong when a man in different colored scrubs and a white jacket sits down at the table with her. Obviously, a doctor. For a split second, I assumed that this was a business meeting, but that crooked grin spread across his face when he sits down directly opposite her tells me everything that I need to know. Predators know they're own kind.
This is not business.
This is monkey business.
I can feel the insides of my body vibrating as I watch him. The way I imagine Bottle feels when she's stalking the neighbor's cat through the living room window. The prey drive in her is undeniable. She wants to get to that cat. She wants to chase him. Catch him. Shake him. Kill him. But she can't. She's stuck in the house with us. A prison of sorts. Stopping her from doing what her ancestral code is compelling her to do.
Take out the enemy.
Am I just like Bottle? Is this all about some primitive part of me that is driving my decision making? I'm not really sure. Some of it probably has to do with the fact that after living with Ariana for weeks, I still don't know that much about her and that shit bothers me. She routinely avoids me. Only talking to me when it's necessary. Do I need anything from the store? Am I eating dinner? Do I have any clothes that need to be washed?
At first, I thought this purposeful distance she was putting between us was a blessing. I don't need to form any attachments to her. I don't need to get to know her. Just on the off chance that I'd have to move to plan B, I don't want some sort of personal fondness for her to become a barricade to the main objective.
Saving my ass.
* * *
