allisaurus

I roll casually over in bed as my alarm buzzes aimlessly beside me, it should know by now that its loud droning does nothing in the effort to wake me up, my own mind does that, about three hours prior to now. Suffering from insomnia isn’t all it’s cracked up to be; sometimes I just don’t understand why teenagers feel the need to pull all-nighters when they always result in an exhaustion that seems incurable. I’ve never felt that exhaustion truly though so to each their own. In the past three hours I’ve contemplated what I have to do today, Wednesday, and I’ve come up with no plausible answer besides lay on the couch watching shitty TV and eating pre-packaged meals. I internally vow to do something worthwhile, whatever that may be, but my thoughts run blank on any possible activity that could fulfill that promise.

Figuring that I’ve wasted enough time just laying here, I hesitantly get out of the bed, leaving the blankets and pillows in a tangled mess. The air is cold on my bare legs and arms but outside the sun is shining and people are walking around in just shorts and a light cotton t-shirt. The AC must have been left on last night, both me and my roommate share this inevitable forgetfulness when it comes to turning things off and, on occasion, this quality has horrid results. I walk to the bathroom, located on the other side of the apartment, and on the way there pass the aforementioned roommate and her most recent boyfriend passed out on the couch, spooning. The TV is on some channel that’s obviously not broadcasting as the white fuzz is on the screen. I hate the sound of that fuzz, it’s deafening even if it’s not a high decibel level. Switching off the TV, I continue to the bathroom, making a path through the kitchen with the empty bottles and cans left everywhere from last night.

The bathroom is probably the cleanest out of all the rooms in our little apartment, surprising because it’s where most of the sex and drugs take place. Today, however, there is a line of unfinished cocaine on the sink and a condom in the trash, probably belonging to Doug or Dan or Dave, whoever that scruffy guy on my couch is. See, that’s the problem with Emily, she brings home these dudes with too much facial hair and a beer gut playing peek-a-boo through his shirt and too tight jeans and then just does whatever the hell she wants with him, not even caring about herpes or pregnancy. At least they used protection, right? I look in the mirror and the girl staring back at me looks like death so I guess that means I do, too. Blonde hair all tangled and matted to my forehead will be a bitch to brush through and the darkening bags under my eyes are a sign that maybe I should tell my doctor about my sleeping problem. I don’t honestly think it’s a problem though because no matter how little sleep I get at night I never really get tired the next day.

I pull a pill canister out of the cabinet, some glorified medicine that’s on all the new hip TV commercials. My doctor says they will help me to feel happy and not feel like I always just want to jump off the bridge that’s located conveniently close to my residence. I don’t mention to him that the insane amounts of alcohol I consume almost every evening have a much better effect on me then this shit medication does. I swallow the pill, it’s a bright yellow color, I guess trying to make you smile just by looking at the goddamn thing, if that was the case I wouldn’t take them at all, but whatever makes the parents happy. Speaking of parents, mine live long enough away from here that I see them only once or twice a year but hear from them almost every week. It’s the same old questions: how are you feeling, how are you eating, do you still have that job at the record store, how’s Emily? Little do they know that I’ve never had that job at the record store and never even applied for the thing, knowing I’d get turned away.

If it weren’t for them I wouldn’t have to take the pill that I just took, my mom made the appointment about seven months ago and made a special trip out here just to make sure I went and got some answers. At the visit she was all “oh yes doctor we trust your opinion” but on the way home it was more like bitching and moaning “he had no idea what he was talking about dear, we can get another view on it.” Little did she know, I didn’t want to get another view on it, I just wanted to go home and watch Maury Povich and his never-ending string of paternity tests. But it wasn’t all bad because before she dropped me off she took me to the mall and bought me this really cute sweater that I wore once or twice before throwing it in my closet in exchange for tank tops and sweatpants. Wednesday. Damn, they call on Wednesdays. I take an extra pill based on that fact alone before peeing and starting the shower.

When I take showers I always make sure they are extra scalding hot. This ensures that all the germs of whatever guy I might have fucked or kissed last night get burnt off of my body and hopefully some of the bad memories do, too. That second part never really happens but I like to look at my skin when I get out, all red and spotty. I strip off the small amount of clothes I have on, not surprised to realize I wasn’t wearing my bra, which I will probably find later in my bed. The water is just the right temperature and I relish in it for a couple of minutes while trying to piece together the events that happened last night. There was a guy named Josh or Jeremy and he was pretty cute, way better than the scum that Emily brought home, and I’m pretty sure we made out on the kitchen counter before going to my room. I don’t feel as if we had sex but you never really know with me.

I shampoo and condition my hair with some all-natural organic stuff that Em insists on picking up even though it costs an arm and a leg and doesn’t really work all that better than the generic brand. It smells like vanilla and coconuts and I guess that’s a plus but I don’t really care what my hair smells like anymore. The suds are an off-white-ish color and I like watching as they swim down the tub towards the drain, it’s like a big race and I always route for the underdog sud but he never wins. I pick up some body wash gel, the same organic brand, and my orange loofah and start scrubbing up, always digging the sponge into my skin, making sure to really exfoliate my pores. One time I scrubbed so hard I started to bleed and that was a kind of cool experience because I knew I was getting super clean, but at the same time I was getting dirty again because of the blood. Like a catch-22 situation, I guess.

When I’m done scrubbing and washing, I get my razor and start shaving, even though I just did yesterday and my hair doesn’t grow that fast. You never know when you’ll get some action though and you always want to be prepared. The tattoo on my hip bone looks great and I always catch myself staring at it because it makes me feel genuinely pretty sometimes, the five delicate flowers gracing the body of a fucked-up twenty-one year old girl. I hear someone come into the bathroom and pee, probably Emily because normally her hung-over guys don’t bother doing anything after they wake up. The person leaves without flushing and it’s kind of gross but kind of considerate at the same time because doesn’t flushing have some effect on the water temperature or something? I don’t know but I guess if it made the water even hotter I wouldn’t complain.

I finish shaving and reach outside of the steaming shower for a towel and when I don’t find one just step out of the tub naked, it’s not like anyone can see and if they did I’m not sure that I would entirely care. I still can’t find a towel meaning we probably forgot to do laundry and they are all sitting in the basket outside the door waiting for the trip to the local laundry mat, appropriately titled the Wash and Dry. I hate putting clothes on when I’m dripping wet so instead of just standing there like I open the door precariously, clothes in one hand, and make my way back to my bedroom. To my relief Doug/Dan/Dave isn’t on the couch anymore, meaning he probably came to his senses and left and Emily is in the kitchen making cereal and taking a load of aspirin. We buy so much of it that one day we just decided to get one of those mega industrial size bottles and that was probably one of the best decisions of our roommate life.

I can’t tell if my room is still colder than normal or not because my body temperature is at least 100 degrees because of the intensity of my shower. I lay on the bed still naked and look at my red skin, and I notice that you can see steam rolling off of it. I think that’s a pretty rad experience because I like steam and whenever I cook I always put my face into the steam as I have heard that it exfoliates and I think that’s a really important part of my beauty regime. Eventually my body cools down and returns to its normal color, tan but not like Jersey girls tan, it’s all natural none of that fake-and-bake stuff. I guess I could be considered somewhat of a Barbie doll, with long blonde hair and pretty sizeable breasts and the tan skin. Many people believe I have an eating disorder but every female in my family is small and it’s not my fault if I am among the smallest of them. The one part of me that I really like is my eyes. They are this crazy color of green, nothing like I have ever seen on anyone else. I can stand in front of the mirror for what seems like forever just looking into my own eyes and getting lost.

I look around my room for any outfit that will suffice for the day and when I find no clean clothes among the piles of books and magazines and alcohol, I walk to the laundry basket and pick out some blue basketball shorts and a t-shirt from my old high school, proclaiming that I had some form of school spirit at least once in my life. I’ve realized that today I can make a trip to the Wash and Dry and I won’t feel like a complete failure when all is said and done. My roommate changes the channel and some cartoon is playing so she gets up and puts one of the Twilight Zone box-set DVDs into the player. We have an odd obsession with that show and honestly I don’t know how it started but it is our go-to entertainment. There is a stack of unopened mail on the old rickety table next to the door so I pick it up and start flipping through it, it’s all for Emily naturally but there is one envelope with my name on it so I open it.

Inside there is a letter from my ex-boyfriend declaring his undying love for me and all that bullshit. I should’ve known by the way it was addressed (Miss Matilda Rose Benson) that it was from the guy because no one calls me by my real name ever, not even my parents, besides him. In the letter he talks about how much he misses me and he wished I would call him and if I’m ever in his area I should let him know. He lives in Scottsdale for Christ’s sake, when am I ever going to be in his area? I really don’t know how he got my current address, probably from my mom or some creepy internet stalking site. The entire last paragraph talks about how he fantasizes about me and loves to think about this one night in the hot tub when he’s getting off. I find that extremely grating and the feeling of being someone’s masturbatory aid isn’t very pleasant. He needs to get over himself and realize that he has absolutely no chance with me but I don’t really feel like writing back so I guess I’ll just deal with these disturbing letters until he gives up.

I gather up all the dirty clothes from around the house and find multiple things that belong to neither Emily nor myself and that would probably make sense because they are definitely male clothing. There is this one really cute flannel button-up that I consider stealing for myself and will probably end up hanging in my closet after I get home from the ‘mat. I don’t think it could have gotten here last night because the guys we brought home were not the type to wear this shirt so I wrack my brain trying to remember who would’ve been here that has this style and when my mind comes up empty I give up, slightly disappointed. I go into the bathroom, still slightly steamy from my shower, and get the detergent and dryer sheets out from under the sink and I really take a second to think about why we have these since we don’t have our own washer and dryer and it might just be easier to purchase them from the Wash and Dry.

I call to Emily and let her know I’m headed out, surprising her because we normally schedule these things in advance. I feel daring and adventurous today, I tell her with a hint of sarcasm, and slip on a pair of flip-flops that are next to the door. The apartment complex’s hallways always smell of marijuana and sex and I’m not entirely sure that that is a bad combination. The couple next to us is arguing and it sounds pretty bad but I’m sure as hell not going to intervene. I hate living on the third floor on days like this because the elevator scares me to death so the stairs are the only way to go and this basket is quite heavy. On the way down I pass the little girl that lives on the fifth floor and she gives a smile and says good morning and I try my best to sound cheerful when I say hello. The rest of the way down to the lobby is uneventful.

Halfway down the block I realize that I didn’t brush my hair and when it air dries it always poofs out so I probably look unappealing but then I remember that we live in the part of town where no one really tries anyways so I probably will be okay. The outskirts of Boston aren’t busy today and for that I’m grateful because the sound of traffic really just gets on my nerves. Across from the laundry mat is a playground and some kids are playing basketball and laughing and I miss days like that when I could just be carefree. Pushing that thought to the back of my mind, I enter the Wash and Dry to find it mostly empty except for a tall guy standing in front of the bulletin board looking at posters.

The TV is blaring and it’s some infomercial for a waffle maker or something and I try my best to ignore it. Laundry mats sometimes weird me out because you never know what kind of clothes were in the washer before you put yours in. I ignore that too and start putting all the things in and when that washer gets full move to the next one and finally onto a third and final washer before I pour the detergent into all of them and realize that I didn’t bring any quarters. I curse out loud and start for the door when the rather attractive boy at the board turns to face me and asks if everything is okay. His voice is one that I could never get tired of listening to, it’s like velvet, really smooth and connected and there’s an accent in it but I can’t really put my finger on what kind.

“No quarters.”

I realize that I probably just sounded like an idiot when I said that because my voice is still kind of rough and I haven’t cleared my throat at all today. He reaches into his pocket and I’m thinking the worst like maybe he has a gun or maybe he is a police officer undercover and going to arrest me for some heinous crime I don’t remember committing. Instead he pulls out a ziplock baggy full of change and I find this somewhat odd because he doesn’t even have any wash going. He dumps the bag into his hand and digs out the quarters and silently hands them to me and he has this smile on his face and I think it’s pretty much the cutest thing I’ve seen in a while.

“Thanks.”

He doesn’t answer and even though I’m confident that I didn’t sound completely stupid that time maybe my hair really does look that bad or maybe my clothes were extremely dirty and he’s just doing his charity duty of the day. I sincerely hope this isn’t the case. He turns back to the board and I see him looking at one poster in particular, it’s for a guitar player for some new indie band that is being set up in town. This instantly meets my approval because well, guitar players are my weakness. He takes down the information in some smartphone that probably cost him more than it should have and turns to leave, causing an unexplainable sadness in me because now I’m thoroughly interested in this boy.

“You play guitar?”

This question must spark something in his brain because he turns swiftly around, facing me. I notice that his eyes are extra-large and deep brown, probably the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen.

“Since I was seven.”

This answer is satisfying and I stare into those eyes for far too long before pulling myself away from them and examining the rest of him. His body is thin, like mine, and I see a tattoo peeking out on his chest from under his v-neck t-shirt, probably a quote that he finds profound and life-changing. His skinny jeans are skin tight just the way I like them and his feet are placed in worn dark brown moccasins. The metacarpals in his feet jut out significantly and this is a huge turn-on for me. His hair is a sandy blonde and rests lightly on top his shoulders and it looks as though he uses a straight iron but you can never really know for sure. Overall his look satisfies me and I return my glance once again to his face, the angular cheekbones and slightly larger nose catching my eye.

He glances over me as well and I can feel his eyes moving up and down my body. I hope I don’t look too horribly bad and I hope my choice of outfit wasn’t a complete mistake for this outing but I never would have thought that I would have seen such a specimen here in front of me. I notice that his eyes stop at around waist level and I realize that my tank top has slid up just enough that the five flowers are blooming out from under the fabric. He smiles and pulls his left foot out of the moccasin and right below the smallest toe is a bouquet of daisies – five daisies - and this makes me wonder if in fact he is gay since most men I know wouldn’t get a flower tattoo. I feel that since he has shown me his I should show him mine and lift my shirt up just enough so every flower is exposed in its entirety. He takes a second to study it before flashing another smile, which I have to admit, is quite attractive. I still have his quarters in my increasingly sweaty palm.

“I’m going to go start my laundry.”

“I’ll stick around.”

I smile internally at the answer and make my way back to the three washers that I have occupied, deposit the change in them and push the start buttons. Turning around I realize that the boy has moved and now stands about four feet from me, looking out the window towards the empty streets.

“Nothing like Louisiana.”

The accent is stronger on this statement then the others before and I find myself wondering why he is up here in the slums of Boston but I’m not complaining because Southern boys are another weakness of mine and I find that this one is fitting all the criteria to be major crush material. I don’t know whether it would be rude or not to ask what he is doing so far from home and decide to just go for it since I told Emily I was feeling adventurous today.

“You’re pretty far from home. Any reason?”

“I have some friends up here that told me there were a lot of opportunities for my music. I’ll do anything to be able to play.”

He holds up the over-priced mini-computer/cell phone containing the phone number for the band he probably intends to try out for as a way to reinforce the last part of the sentence. The dedication that his move demonstrates is super attractive and I really hope things keep progressing in our developing relationship.

“I’m Callum, by the way, Callum Turner.”

He extends a slim hand my way and I graciously take it, the warmth of his body sending a shock up my still cold spine. We shake for a second and then I realize that he would probably like to know my name in return and I stumble over the possibilities of what to say for a second in my mind since people call me one of three different things.

“Matilda. Tilly or Matty for short. It’s really your choice.”

Shit, that probably makes me sound idiotic. Why would it be his choice if we are never going to see each other again? I mentally beat myself up and wish that I could take back that answer and just say one name but then I look at him and realize he’s smiling and looking back at me and I take this as a good sign. Callum (a name that I now love) hands me the mini-computer/cell phone and I’m confused as to what he wants me to do with it but then I actually look at the screen and see that it’s on the enter new contact screen.

“Just put it under whatever name you want me to call you.”

So I type Matty because no one calls me that besides Emily and Tilly is what all the drunks that come to our apartment call me and Matilda is reserved only for that psycho ex-boyfriend that keeps writing me. I assume he wants me to fill out the rest of the information so I put in my phone number and email address but I really don’t think people really email much these days and then I hit save and it goes back to the main screen. His background picture is of someone playing guitar on stage and I want to assume it’s him.

“That’s from a show I played in Tennessee on my way up here. Really great crowd.”

“I would love to hear your stuff sometime. I have a weakness for guitar players with flower tattoos.”

I give a wink with this comment and I don’t know if that’s too much for the situation but I don’t regret it because I’m starting to feel comfortable with him and I sigh a breath of relief when I realize that his cheeks are a slight shade of pink.

“Yeah? I’ll see what I can do. I also have a weakness for people with flower tattoos.”

With those words, Callum, the boy that I’ve been looking for for quite some time, turns towards the door and exits the Wash and Dry.