Fiction: The La Di Da Lady Part Eight

Part Eight

Hurricane S hates to cook and that hatred suits me just fine because she makes the worst kind of food known to man. It’s become my habit to come home from work and pop into the kitchen to unwind and cook myself the perfect meal, depending on my mood. I usually cook enough for two so that The Hurricane can grab her share while moaning about her tiny waist expanding half a centimetre. I don’t know how or why I got saddled with a fitness freak room mate, but such is life. As suckish as possible, but just not enough to make you rage quit the whole thing in a huff.

Which… I was on the verge of doing this morning. The boss, who I’m now entirely convinced is a robot made of wires and electric impulses, saw me on the floor scrabbling around for my mountain of junk and stepped over me. He literally stepped over my body where it was sat on the floor so that he could get into his office. He didn’t even ask me to move. He didn’t even give me a chance to move!

It was like I was an installed roadblock instead of a living, breathing human being. I wanted to hit the roof.

Later, once I’d thought about it. In that moment, all I had the brain power to do was feel incredibly relieved that no one was asking me to talk about why I was sitting on the floor like a three year old and hurriedly shove everything I owned into my suddenly far-too-small handbag.

Speaking of which, I need to repack that thing properly. It’s bulging so much it looks like that white tyre guy. The lotion-coloured one. I forget his name.

I have pasta sauce thickening at this very moment and it smells so good I want to eat it straight from the pot with a spoon. I’m so hungry. S – who works basically at my right elbow is insistent that we travel together to and from work so that we can save on fuel. Makes sense, no problem.

Except, there is a problem. On the days she drags herself into the office, S seems content to stay there until they begin to vacuum around her. We got home at 7:30 PM. The last thing I ate was a sandwich at midday. I would’ve eaten S herself if we hadn’t gotten out of there when we did.

She’s still miffed at me about ‘nagging at her’. I don’t care, I’m hungry, and she’s the one who insisted she get her way. She got what she wanted, a little suffering to along with it is good for the temper. Or the spleen or something. I don’t exactly remember.

My pasta sauce is gonna bubble over if I don’t go pay attention to it. Gotta go, bye.

Still don’t know why I’m being polite to the random Internet and one maybe-S.

Eh, whatever. Doesn’t cost anything.

I may not be a hotshot numbers whiz but I can make good pasta. Hurricane S has simmered down to a flowing wind and it’s all thanks to the garlic in my sauce. I should feed her more often if this is what comes of it. I don’t even mind the cost of groceries – pasta’s pretty cheap.

Less nice? Her grilling me about my every minute movement at work. No, the guy didn’t notice me taking a moment to rest my eyes. He wouldn’t have noticed me turning cartwheels, I’ll bet.

Speaking of S and my boss, they seem to know one another awfully well. I’m beginning to suspect this pity-hire was more out of a need to get into S’s pants than truly help her out. If that’s the case then I need to grill whatshisface good and proper. I don’t trust just anyone near my sister.

She might drive me up the wall but she’s my sister. There are certain things you do.

Not that she did them for me.

But! I decided I wasn’t going to be bitter about that. I’m turning over a new leaf, one where I behave like a mature adult. Yeah, I don’t know how long it’s going to last either. Flightiness and obsession are in my genes, y’know. That’s why I used to think S was the long lost adopted baby when I was a brat(-tier) kid. She’s way too level and dependable. But then, she judges like a true member of the family. It’s tough to tell, really.

Time to exit out of this thing again before she grabs my phone for ‘being glued to that screen’. Like she isn’t, the hypocrite. I wish I was the eldest…

I have an ooey gooey, steaming bowl of mashed potatoes topped with cheese and garlic salt in front of me and I’m so queasy I don’t even want to take a bite. I was all ready with the latest instalment of my favourite brainless action movie series streamed and waiting to start playing when S reminded me that it’s Family Day tomorrow (yes, the capitals are necessary). I’m a horrible daughter to not want to go and visit, I know. It’s not that I don’t love our parents… They’re just a lot to handle. The Hurricane is religious about us going to visit though. Every weekend, like clockwork. “So they know we’re still there for them,” she says.

I’d like to stay away for a weekend, just to see if either of them notice the difference. I doubt it. They were always too wrapped up in one another to ever see anything else. And now… well, it hasn’t gotten any better.

I don’t want to go. Whenever I go there, I feel like a spider’s crawling on my skin. It’s the most awful feeling and it leaves me on edge for hours afterwards.

At least we go on Saturdays these days so I have Sunday to recover from the whole ordeal.

I think I’m just gonna go to bed. My snack’ll keep until tomorrow. It won’t be as good, but that’s life, right? Night, stalkers.

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