But my inner voice is loud.You have friends. You have friends again.
The door to my room flies open, slamming into the doorstop. Estelle steps inside, her knee-high boots tracking snow and water onto the tattered wood floor. “What a stupid fucking bitch! My roommate can just go to hell and fuck the devil for all I care.” She storms across the room and sits down in the desk chair. Her hair is damp and glistening, and despite her diatribe, she looks angelic.
“I see it’s snowing out,” Eric says calmly.
“Yes. It is.” Estelle crosses her legs and removes the cashmere scarf from around her neck. She is fuming.
“Damn it,” I say. “I wanted to run later. I hadn’t even noticed the snow.” I lean forward and glare out the window at the wet snow that is falling. The streets have just been fully cleared from the last snowfall yesterday, and now this. The indoor track is fine, and it’s probably safer when I run during the dark early-morning hours, but I much prefer running outdoors. The track is smooth and predictable, but I do not like running in circles. Plus, there are other people there. I prefer solitary running, and when I’m at the college gym, there are other students around to see my slow, ungainly style. My new, expensive sneakers, however, will probably last longer without being subjected to the wet, snowy streets.
“How far do you run, anyway?” Estelle asks.
“Oh.” I think for a minute. Two playlists isn’t really a definitive answer. “I don’t know, actually. Probably a few miles. Maybe more.”
Estelle tosses up her hands. “I wish my roommate were a runner. Maybe then she’d be too busy to bitch endlessly about my laundry pile. She’s an obsessive-compulsive neat freak.”
“You are a slob,” Eric says.
“Shut up. And she wants to turn on the lights and roll up the shades at ungodly early hours, and she gets bullshit that I might want to sleep past six fucking o’clock in the morning. She barrels around the room intentionally making loud noises until it’s impossible for me to sleep even with pillows on my head. I hate her. Why did I get stuck with such a stupid loser?”
“You didn’t choose to live with her?” I ask.
“Hell no. I know, I know, you’re wondering why I didn’t put in for a particular roommate like everyone else. Girls don’t like me. Which is fine. I don’t like other girls much either. Except for you. You, I like.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re not a moronic bitch.”
“I don’t think you’re a moronic bitch either.”
“Good. So the final straw was this morning. Is it unreasonable not to want to wake up to Michael fucking Bublé? It is not! So while she waltzed around the room humming to herself, I did some humming to myself, too.”
Eric slams his book shut. “Estelle, you did not!”
“What?” I ask. “What are you talking about?”
Estelle examines her perfectly manicured red nails. “I whipped out my biggest vibrator and turned it up to high.”
“Oh my God.” I am not sure what else to say.
“She was not happy, let me assure you. And frankly, I wasn’t all that thrilled with the results, either. Have you ever tried to masturbate while singing ‘It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas’ at the top of your lungs? It’s not easy. Plus, I’m not in the stockings-and-tinsel mood yet. It’s only November and I refuse to deal with Christmas until after Thanksgiving.”
“Of course she was pissed off.” Eric is blushing and his sigh echoes throughout the room. “You’re not supposed to—”
“Blythe? What do you think?” Estelle crosses her arms.
“I think that I don’t want to listen to Michael Bublé’s music, but that thinking about him while I masturbate is something to consider. He’s not bad looking. That said, I might choose a different method to retaliate against a roommate. One that doesn’t, you know, involve a high-speed vibrator.”
Estelle taps her foot for a minute and then smirks. “So no anal beads either?”
Oh God. “Probably not,” I advise.
Eric has turned nearly purple.
“What am I gonna do?” Estelle clomps from the desk chair over to my futon and throws herself down, resting her head on my legs. “I hate that abominable wench.”
“Move in with me,” I blurt out.
She rolls over to look up at me. “What?”
