She opens the door that's squeeked for the last three years and will probably squeek until the cochroaches overrun the world. It smells like Ian's sweat, cheap Scotch and meat. The pheramones of masculinity gone unchecked by a feminine presence. It's odd how years of delicate pruning and hygeine lessons can be erased in a few weeks with the right attitude and a dedication to rebel against showers.
The worst part of this is getting stuff out, it always is. Ugchh..., I bet all of my clothes are covered in a meaty film. This is so disgusting. Screw you, Ian, you petty ass.
The last two times she's come back here to take things to her "new place", Ian's thrown a huge fit about it-
She waded in through a random assortment of clothes that had obviously been shed upon entering the apartment every night and the land-mines of shoes and take-out boxes that made their once pristine home look like a Double Dare obstacle course. Hopping between the only blank spots in the floor to the table, she picked up the a stale bowl that was sitting on top of her mail and brushed the debris onto the floor.
Fleet Credit Card, Ms. Magazine, Car Inspection Notice, bills, bills, bills...
She shoved them all in her tote bag and began another series of hops over to the refrigerator. Morbid curiousity about the science experiment that is Ian on his own takes over all of her common sense as she opens the door.
Nothing has changed. The refrigerator is like some bizarre still life. Everything is exactly as it was before they went out to Paz's that night: the pad thai noodles they ordered out are still in their chinese take-out box, her soy milk is still hiding in the back, her PowerBars are stacked in the side door, her tofu is half eaten in a Ziploc bag. It's as if this is his one, sad little museum to what used to be the "favorite couple" in their little scene of friends. Well, the order hasn't been touched, but the state of decay has definitely increased.
Ian, you always imagined yourself to be some kind of poet. Like you do these things "by accident" that just end up being metaphors. Rotting food equals rotting love and your poor broken little heart. Ugggchhh. Poseur.
She closes the fridge and hops out of the kitchen, on for the next and last of the mysteries to be explored... The bedroom door is closed and seems to be tingling with the mysetry that the fridge entails: will she find it oddly preserved?
Knowing Ian, he's probably urinated all over it to christen it with his new, ever-so-cute bachelor scent. Ha. Loser.
She pushes open the door with a chuckle, then stops dead in her tracks.
******************
It feels like she's running from Michael Myers in some b-grade horror film, the way she's sprinting out of Barnes and Noble. She collapses onto a bench outside and catches her breath while laughing to herself.
It's actually pretty funny. It's like I'm in my own little movie. Escape from the Killer Bookstore. The bookstore that sucks souls and belches dollars. The brick-armored monster that is pregnant with a Starbucks and infested with neo-hipsters.
Ingrid pulls her messenger bag over her head and rifles past her random receipts and checkbook to find her lipgloss. Rolling it over her lips, she searches around the landscape for someone to people-watch (sort of like being on a Nature show, only with mullets and Louis Vuitton bags and drunk guys and sluts). She enjoys being her own little freelance Anthropologist.
Wow. Is that woman really serious about loving those spandex pants? Yikes.
She slips her lipgloss back in her bag and proceeds to pull out her sketchbook (this is a very necessary tool for ANYONE living in a city. It helps you to look hot, intelligent and artistic all at once). Ingrid begins drawing contours of pidgeons and people on the peddle-boats.
Hmmmm... Pidgeon Peddle-boats. Sounds like a great band name to me.
Her short attention span mingled with the instinctive jolt that screams, "Dear god girl!!! You were running to get away from these people a minute ago" causes her to dig for her cell phone to see who's about and where the heck she can go that isn't the harbor.
Alysa, no, Amy, bitch!, Billy, Brando, Carl, all dumb and boys, Eli, maybe, no, no, no, at work still, no, no, Ian... hmmm. I should probably get to him before Tevon does. A week and a half straight of Canadian Mist and soft-core has got to be damaging for the soul...
Send. Rinnng....... Rinnng.... Rinn-
"Hey girl, whassup!!" She can barely hear him over the thudding music in the background.
"Uh, hey, Ian. Um, what are you listening to??? Are you ok?"
"What??! Oh... um, it's some band Tev likes. It rocks."
"I thought you hated that stuff. Are you sure you're feeling well?"
"Yeah... I can't really listen to techno yet." He drums a solor out. Bless hands-free.
"Oh. Sorry. Anyways, what are you doing right now?"
"Nothing really, just driving. Why?"
"Well... I just got off work and I really need someone to rescue me. Oh and I think that Paz should be done knitting. Will you please please please come pick me up and take me to the Grind??? It'll be good for ya."
"I dunno, Ingrid. All you two do is sit and sulk and do that Surreal Writing stuff. I think I kind of need to be alone, anyways." Oh shit that was my turn.
"Come on. I'll buy you some pie and coffee. Please, I swear we won't do any of that Exquisite Corpse stuff. Pleeeeeeeeease???"
God. I guess it's better than the alternative. It's either this or go home and wonder whether to watch Skinamax or true to squint through the scrambled Spice channel. Man, Ingrid is so good at making me do things when I just want to die.
"Fine."
"Yesssssssss! You're the best Ian ever!"
"I know, I know, cut it out. I'll be there but it's gonna take me like thirty minutes."
"No problem, I'll just sit her and watch the chuckleheads."
"And I sure as hell better get some primo pie out of this. I'm talkin Dangerously Delicious, like top shelf stuff"
"You got it"
"Later," he hangs up and smiles. It's the first one he's had in days.
******************************
"Tevon, what the hell are you doing in my bed??!!""Wha?" he stirs into reality. "Oh. It's you, Amy... Sorry, I didn't recognize you with your clothes on."
"Ha ha ha. Funny. God, you're lying all over my silk sheets and stinking them up with your booze breath!"
"Excuse me, mistress. I didn't realize you could have your cheatin' ass kicked out of an apartment and still claim everything in it to be yours. My mistake," he chuckles. Pow! All beef juicy burn, Vega-Bitch!
"Just get up. Ew... and put some pants on!" She sneers as she walk over to his nasty pants and throws them at his face.
Tevon catches them and begins to prop himself up on the bed. "Damn Amy. I thought you preferred your men with their pants off. Oh and preferably slammin' you in the back of a Gremlin."
"Screw You!" she tears the pink sheet (fair trade material, of course) off the bed as Tevon rolls onto the floor. Amy then wads it up in a makeshift ball and shoves it under her arm, storming out of the apartment.
Tevon calls after her, "Sorry baby girl, but I don't think I'm up for a ride today!"
She slams the door and silence fills the apartment once again. Tevon reaches for his phone.
***********************
posted by the ineffable b @ 5:14 AM
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