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“We’re neighbors. Thirty minutes is all I need to have food ready!” I declare before marching towards the stairs. I don’t look back, too afraid he’ll turn me down.

Once I make it to my door, the handle doesn’t twist in my hand.

Weird, I never lock my door.

Pushing the thought aside, I beeline it inside, emptying my pockets on my tiny table before going to my refrigerator. To anyone else, they might think the abysmal ingredients in my apartment couldn’t even be sufficient for a meal, but when my eyes land on the cheese in the drawer, I know exactly what I will cook.

16

Whack For Her Mac

Orzo

She’s feeding this strange man. Should I stop this?

Why are they sitting on her bed? There’s a perfectly good table next to it.

Anger buzzes beneath my skin. I want to scratch it away, but I know it is an itch I will forever live with.

“John, try it, I promise it’s not poisoned,” Cinnamon jokes, but I can see the man—John’s face whitens at her statement.

She reaches over, stuffing her fork into his bowl and taking a bite of food.

“See, it’s just whack mac, it’s my go to comfort food on long days.”

John visibly relaxes, taking a bite. His face twists, clear joy pressing into his features and then he eats the rest like a rabid dog.

And I am forced to watch it all from the closet across from them, the slats in the door offering a perfect line of sight.

How long was I up here for? I lost complete track of time. This isn’t like me.

“That’s fucking good,” John advises blissfully.

My eyes flick to the dish on her stove, my stomach gurgling softly in discontent.

I want some.

“I’m glad you like it.” She takes a bite, closing her eyes, an addictive moan leaving her lips.

She doesn’t notice John watching her.

But I do.

He is in a trance as his eyes trace her face, slowly drifting downwards to her chest.

And I don’t fucking like it.

I want to break his glasses. Gouge out his eyes.

I’m not really sure why I’m here. I tried to avoid her, and it worked…for less than a day.

And then like an elastic band, I was snapped back to her apartment complex. Propelled up the stairs.

Forced to pick the lock. To snoop.

Did she take my bad luck? What does that mean if she did?

Those are the questions I focus on. The ones I force myself to circulate.