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The day my husband moves out of our apartment is also the day Resident Evil Village releases for PlayStation, and you might be surprised which of these things lands with a greater emotional impact.
West’s eyes are the color of sunlight passing through a glass of whiskey.
He laughs, too, and the sound sends electricity scratching down my spine.
It’s surreal to be here with her after all this time. I was so close to being done with this, so near to the finish line, yet here I am, having to improvise an intricate plan B at the eleventh hour with a Muppet in human form as my co-conspirator.
Unfortunately, right now she looks like she’s fallen out of a tree and crawled through a field of tangly briers to get back to her apartment.
casually dragging her and I cant stop laughing
Google tells me that West is the son of a billionaire, and a glance at my banking app tells me I am a thirty-dollaraire.
She leans forward and hugs me. “This is going to be a disaster. I’m so excited!”
During the tenure of our roommateship, she never wore much makeup, and of course a few days ago in her apartment, she looked—I’m so sorry to say it—like a demented Care Bear.
The designer bag sits open in my lap. It feels lighter than it looks, holding its shape even though, without the phone, it appears to be relatively empty. Curious and unable to resist, I tilt my head to peek inside, and my heart does an unexpected twist behind my breastbone at the sight of the shaggy coin purse she must use as a wallet, the simple Burt’s Bees lip balm, her passport, and her scuffed house keys on the same UCLA key chain she’s had ever since we lived together years ago. Anna truly has nothing.
This made me so sad
“You didn’t have to change your entire personality to do this.” She looks up at me, eyes narrowing. “Say that again. I wasn’t watching and I want to see if you can do it with a straight face.”
“You’ve told me I’m supposed to be a married medical student on the way back from Cambodia. I’m wearing actual Chanel and two days ago had my labia waxed by a woman with hands bigger than yours. My fake husband just dropped a ring box onto the console between us and said, ‘There you go.’ And you want me to be serious?”
Being an artist is sometimes about not being afraid to do it badly first.
“Don’t you fucking touch the lips,” he says, voice hoarse. “You look amazing.”
I realize, just before we touch, that he’s about to erase everything I know about the act of kissing.
I absolutely do not look down at his shorts; what kind of a trash goblin do you take me for? But if I did look down, I would see quite a tent happening.
“Now go get pampered,” I tell him, lifting my chin in the direction Jake wandered off. “And relax. Get those hobbit feet scrubbed.”
It is the comfort of having an ally. It is the powerlessness of infatuation. It is the terrifying beginning of more.
And this, right here, is where I don’t know what to do. I don’t know whether I’m supposed to laugh at Anna Green, ravage her, or marry her all over again—but this time for real.
