Ifucking hate her.
It’s been a few weeks, and her majesty, Queen Penelope, didn’t want to move back into her old place, which is weird since apparently I’msucha pain in her ass, but according to my resident advisor, RA, she was settled, and the university found someone else to go into her old dorm room.
So, she’s lived next door for just under a month, and it feels like she’s complained about me to our RA at least once daily. Some days twice. I’m lucky my dude is a hockey fan. Kidding. Kind of. He knows she’s got a chip on her shoulder when it comes to me.
I’m not saying she’s making it up, but... My neighbor on the other side never complains. Neither does my roommate.
Or hers for that matter. It seems my existence is only a problem to Ms. Pitstop.
It’s funny, because even though she lives next door, I hardly ever see her. Can’t help but feel like that’s by design. I only know she’s still there, however, because my RA tells me as much.
I’ve spent the last two hours watching game tape from the weekend. Not ours, no, other teams. I watched ours thismorning, and yesterday, and today I started watching some of our opponents to see why we’ve lost our last two games in a row.
This is my happy place.
I've got too much to do to waste time cooking, and I’m too hungry to wait much longer so I’m going to DoorDash something.
You’d thinkthatwas the toughest decision I have to make, but with all the options on the screen in front of me, my stomach just growls louder as the minutes tick by.
I hate being inefficient, so knowing I’ve paused a game to pick food from a stream of options just makes me cranky. Could be the fact I’m hangry, but I’d never admit it.
I settle on pie from Get the Fork Out. Megan makes the best pie in the state. And I can get dinner pie, dessert pie, and leftover pie. If my neighbor wasn’t such a raging bitch these days I could even order neighbor pie.
But she is. So I won’t.
I get lost in the game, making notes, rewinding, re-watching, and the only way I know a substantial amount of time has passed is because my stomach has started to consume itself.
Dramatic? Perhaps.
But a quick glance at the bottom of the screen tells me it’s been forty minutes since I ordered food. There’s no way it takes that long to get pie from GTFO.
A series of sharp bangs on the door scare me out of my seat like the chair is on fire.
When I jerk open the door, the devil herself stands there, wet hair cascading down her shoulders and a bag from GTFO in her hands.
What the fuck is she doing with my dinner?
Before I can ask, she strides into my room. With each step she takes toward me, instinct drives me backward as she rams the food against my chest. I’m not sure what the she-devil hasagainst pie but I’d bet it’s not still in perfectly sliced triangles anymore. She’s smushed it for sure.
“Do that again, and I’ll eat your fucking dinner.”
Why is she so fucking angry with me? It’s like the very sight of me makes her livid.
“Do what again?” I’d love to say I’m scared of her, but I’m mostly just hot. Her temper, her passion, her fire is so damnhot. And way better than the indifference she’s been radiating on the rare occasion I do cross paths with her.
This is far from indifference, and the waves of anger emanating from her body are sending very mixed signals to my crotch. Why are angry women so hot?
Or maybe it’s just Penelope. Maybe whensheis angry, it’s hot. The way her chest is heaving right now certainly makes me want to... never mind. I feel like I need to pay attention because she’s still giving me a tirade about how this prank of mine dragged her out of the shower to go downstairs and pick up food she didn’t even order.
It’s hard not to chuckle at the visual.
Or get distracted by her hard nipples poking through the thin material of her shirt.
I don’t even know how it happened. I don’t remember typing in her information. In fact, I’m sure I didn’t, but from the way her cheeks are reddening, her nostrils flaring, and eyes spearing me like they have harpoons attached to them, it doesn’t matter. She won’t listen to me even if I try to defend myself.
What the hell is this chick’s deal? How did we get from playing tonsil tennis to her loathing my very existence?
She leaves as fast as she arrived, in a blaze of cuss words and a gust of cool air as she slams my door shut behind her. Always with the slamming doors.
