Disclaimer: The words, the plot, and the story are mine.
It was one of those moments when I regretted everything.
That root of the problem was that, in a moment of extreme weakness, I’d allowed my materialistic side to win out. I’d found a perfectly good closet sized apartment for a price low enough that I could still do important things like buy shoes and eat. I’d passed it by.
All things could be blamed on my cousin. She was the one who was desperate to not move back in with her parents after graduation and suggested we get a better apartment and split the rent. Needing a place to put said shoes, I agreed.
We’d even come up with a roommate agreement like the nerds on that television show.
I thought I’d covered everything.
It didn’t take long to realize just how very wrong I was.
I knew it was going to be bad when, the moment I stepped inside the door, I tripped on a pink stiletto that was lying haphazardly next to a man’s oxford shoe. With a sense of dread seeping through every fiber of my body, I walked further into the apartment.
A second pink stiletto, a second oxford, a box of Kleenex knocked off the edge table, two picture frames askew on the wall, no lights turned on at all, a handbag half slung over the back of the sofa … the signs were all there, as much as I didn’t want them to be.
I stopped at the hallway that led to the bedrooms. Her door was closed tightly and there no signs of anyone having been in the hall at all. No clothes, no shoes, no property damage.
The options didn’t look good.
Either aliens had abducted my cousin and a man, and they were now traveling around the galaxy with only one shoe each, or my cousin was having sex somewhere else in my apartment. With the hallway, bedrooms, and bathroom untouched, only the living room and the kitchen were left. Unless of course they were having sex on the balcony.
In that moment, I prayed they were having sex on the balcony because, after all, they obviously weren’t in the living room and I very much didn’t want them to be in the kitchen.
My prayers went unanswered.
Kitchens should be used to messes – messes involving spills and crumbs and dirty cookware. Kitchens should never, ever, ever be used to messes involving dress pants, button down shirts, ties, pantyhose, dresses, panties, and bras hanging randomly from the handle of the oven.
Worst of all, four bare legs were sticking out from behind the island.
Torn somewhere between being irate and disgusted, I walked to the chalkboard that hung on the wall and wrote out my thoughts as quietly as I could.
Addendum to our apartment sharing agreement:
NO SEX IN THE KITCHEN. EVER. NONE.
Disinfect the entire room or you’re paying my half of the rent for three months, FYI.
And you, with the hairy legs, have a nice day.