“Don’t think twice about my attorney, please. I pay her to be a bitch, and she’s a bitch. Are you sick or something?”
“She can be an attorney and still control her inner bitch. We all do it. It shows lack of self-control, you know, which might not be good in the courtroom.” I shouldn’t be one to talk, but I’m not an attorney.
Wesley clears his throat because well, I’m right, and he knows it. “I made it known that her comments were not appreciated earlier, trust me.”
“Good. Like you just said, youarethe onepayingher, so she should keep that in mind.”
“Thank you for the advice,” he says, begrudgingly. “So, are you really sick?”
I release a sigh, hoping to show a lack of care for the conversation. “Eh, I'm under the weather from the stress at work."
“Yeah, I can understand. Between work and staying out late every night this week, it's no wonder you're worn out." Ew, he pulled that card? Although, I have the nerve to complain about work stressing me out when he is the actual source of stress.
“True," I tell him.
“Well, I hope you have a good night then, I'll catch up with you another time."
“K," I say, keeping my remark short and blunt. I can play this game too, and I can play it real well.
In fact, I decide to forget about hanging up the call. “You know what Layla, I will go find my friend, Timber. I need loving tonight, and I'm getting my vibe on." That's all. I can hang up the call now.
“What the hell are you talking about?" Layla yells with a mouthful.
“Nothing, I was finishing up my call."
“Did I hear you tell him about your vibrator?"
“Don't worry about it."
With a quick wardrobe change into my less than desirable scrubby clothes, I grab the peanut butter chunky chocolate tub of ice cream out of the fridge, then a serving spoon from the drawer. With only the remote and a chick flick, this will be the perfect Friday night.
A heavy sigh spills from my lungs as I get comfortable, power up the TV, and tear the top off of my ice cream. “Be jealous of my life, Layla. Be jealous."
I think she's cooking something for her dinner, but she pokes her head out of the kitchen only to roll her eyes at me.
I'm about a quarter of the way into my gallon of ice cream, a half hour into the movie, and I'm about to fall asleep from a sugar coma when someone knocks on our damn door. “I bet it‘s Wendy, from next door. Can't she buy her own cream so she can stop having to borrow ours every other night?"
Layla stands up from the kitchen bar table and tosses her bowl into the sink. “I'll get it," she says. The door opens, but I don't bother looking over because eye contact with Wendy leads to a conversation and I don't want to talk to anyone tonight. “You're not from a dating site. You're too hot, which means you must be Wesley."
I close my eyes and toss my ice cream tub onto the table. “I'd like to speak with your roommate for a minute," he tells her.
“Sure, she's over there—the couch potato who looks like Shrek's wife."
Screw you, Layla.“You going on another date tonight, or what?" Wesley asks me.
“What does it look like?" I respond, waving at my attire.
“Who's Timber?" he asks.
I crack up so hard that my stomach hurts from all the ice cream I ate. I'm curled into the fetal position on the couch, thinking about Wesley, who is assuming Timber is a person. “Timber? Is that what you said?" Layla asks. She only gets to butt in because I'm still laughing too hard to answer.
“Yeah, I heard the little side conversation on the phone before she hung up the call."
“That's right, I heard you talking about Timber," Layla tells me. Well, my plan worked.
“You're crazy. I said nothing about Timber," I argue.
“Yeah, you did," they say in unison.
