I plucked each inkwell off the floor and placed them in a secure and upright position on the coffee table. Now that impending doom was no longer upon me, I could figure out what to do with all the loose papers on the floor. They didn’t appear to be in any order, so I knelt to scoop them up, intent on tossing them all (in an organized pile, of course) onto the table.
Then I caught a glimpse of the page in my hand, and paused.
Everything was black and white, and for a moment it felt like I was staring at a horror-genre optical illusion. The pages seemed to be panels of a comic, but I couldn’t quite make out a coherent narrative, if there was one. There was barely any dialogue, only some weird, globby, Eldritch monster-type figures drawn in increasingly obscure environments.
There was also ... a penguin?
It was all very well done, clearly drawn by someone with a vision of whatever it was supposed to look like. I had no idea what was going on—I just knew it shouldn’t be spread out across the living room floor. How had he even managed to make this much of a mess in twelve hours? I stay over at Darren’s forone nightandthishappens.
I made sure all the papers were facing the same direction before placing the pile inside the first drawer of the coffee table, then the inkwells inside the second drawer. Grabbing a pen and Post-it from the kitchen, I labeled one “ink” and the other “drawing pages.” I stuck each note on their respective drawer, then walked to the kitchen.
There was something on the fridge.
The whiteboard that I had purchased now bore a drawing of a fluffy bunny wearing an apron. There was a word balloon hovering over the bunny’s head which read,Hello, I’m Martha Stewart!It wasn’t quite clear what a Martha Stewart bunny was doing on the fridge, but perhaps there was a note left to explain it.
The note I had left for Armand was still hanging from the clip on the fridge, but now there was a small scribble at the bottom, in a scrawl vastly different from my cursive:
hi
Huh. I turned the paper over to see if I’d missed anything. Nope, that was the extent of the note. I’d written him awhole page.
... “Hi”?!
The fridge was still stocked with the avocados and spinach leaves, so at least Armand had in fact read the note. Good to know. I turned to wash up in the sink and stopped short. A half-filled mug of some murky liquid was placed on the counter, and I had a nagging suspicion that it wasn’t tea.
I sniffed the contents cautiously and instantly reeled backward. Nope. Definitely whiskey.
Suddenly, the inkwell warzone made a lot more sense.
I dumped the contents, sighed, and walked to the bathroom. At this point, all I wanted was a nice hot shower before I had to make myself presentable.
In the bathroom was an appalling lack of Armand-owned hygiene products. The only items I could identify as my housemate’s were a bar of soap, a toothbrush, and a lonely razor sitting abandoned on the side of the sink.
He was a caveman. An unshaven, non-ocean breeze-scented caveman. Who probably didn’t use conditioner, either. God help me.
I turned to the mirror and—Oh no. What. There was, drawnontothe mirror, inmarker, a mustache.
A this-only-needs-a-cigar-to-complete-the-image-of-a-stuffy-billionaire mustache.
I should’ve been panicking that I lived with someone who actually drew on a mirror, but I was struck by an impulse. I lined up my face with the mustache and, upon having to stand up on my toes, realized that Armand was several inches taller than me.
Stop being amused by this! He drew on the mirror! He’d better hope this isn’t permanent marker!
A little soap, water, and elbow grease later proved the ink to be temporary. So after a nice long shower, I shuffled back to the living room and scrolled through my playlists. Normally I would pop on some classic Taylor Swift, but now I was stressed, so I reached for Lizzo instead.
“Hey, guys.” I sighed, tossing a pinch of food into Gaston and LeFou’s tank. “Apparently I’m rooming with a monosyllabic alcoholic named Armand who refuses to use hair products and sits around drawing cartoons on the floor.” My fish were peering judgmentally from behind the coral reef, so I hurried to explain. “Okay, I know that sounded mean. His drawings are actually really good.” I watched Gaston nibble at the food and then chase LeFou around the castle. “I haven’t even met the guy yet, so if you two could keep an eye out and just, you know, take notes. Let me know what he’s like.”
LeFou seemed to mouth at the coral in an agreeable manner. Gaston was aloof as usual and could not be trusted to go along with my plan.
Time to get dressed—I was not about to leave Darren and his friends waiting. This was the first time he’d ever offered to introduce me to the people in his life. I walked back to my room and stood staring at the contents of my closet for the better part of ten minutes, struggling to make a decision.
Do I wear the light-green, patterned button-down to match my eyes and that screams fun and personality, or the solid peach that says “take me seriously as an adult person who could definitely fit in with a group of young and fancy lawyers”?
Since I was meeting Darren at one thirty rather than in ten years from now, I chose the peach and called it good.
A fifteen-minute drive later and I blinked up at the gratuitous awning in front of Cresson Cher, which seemed a bit excessive for a lunch.But any excuse to get all dressed up was a good one, so I took a deep breath and headed inside.
The intoxicating aroma of high-end food I wouldn’t be able to eat wafted over me as I stepped inside. I basked instead in the warm, dim glow of the pretentious chandeliers as I checked in with the hostess. She indicated that the McKinley party was already seated, and I was escorted to a corner booth where Darren was waiting.
