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What part of struggles with change did you not understand?
– Marcella
“Fi…” Squinting in my bathroom mirror, I death-stare at the shape of my mouth as it wraps around the first two letters of my dear, dear boyfriend’s name. I’m all but biting my lip. Like he does periodically. What a narcissistic name if it makes everyone pick up that bad habit of his.
My lips pull back from my teeth as I achieve the N sound.
The dim yellow glow of my bathroom light makes my harsh expression and flushed, fresh-from-a-hot-shower skin look ghastly.
Honestly.
What is that man thinking?
“All together now,” I mutter. “Fff…” I swear instead.
Dropping my head, I stare at the off-white sink. It’s crammed right next to my toilet, which is smooshed right against a standing shower. It’s a straight, unflattering line of plumbing appliances with a half foot of dingy linoleum in front of it.
I need to look for apartments with bathrooms that don’t cosplay as closets.
I need to locate the main office of that stupid loan company. By the time my September bill is due, I have to be on their doorstep.
In less than two weeks, their stupid scam ends and my money will be my own. So by around mid-September, I want to be out of here, in a place with a bathtub, lighting that doesn’t make me look like a horror movie character, and enough room in front of my toilet to take a deep breath without hitting the toilet paper holder.
My ambitions might just be a little out of control.
Eye twitching, I try an endearment on for size—something classic, emotionless. “Honey.”
Suddenly, I’m in a sitcom from the 1960’s, playing a little wife. And I swear to all that is good that is the last thing I want the F-meister to picture. Seeing me as his little wife is what we are trying to avoid. Thank you very much.
Why in the world did I fill out that dumb form?
Because, Marcella, if you hadn’t, you wouldn’t be paying off a debt with over a hundred percent interest next month. Because, Marcella, if you hadn’t, you wouldn’t be giving up on finding a nickname for your idiotic boss in favor of looking into nice apartments instead.
Defeated, I drag myself out of the bathroom, get changed into my pj’s, and curl up on my couch with my laptop. Without five thousand dollars going to loans every month…I could get a stupid nice place. Is that…is that really true? What?
Sitting up straighter, I drag a leg against my chest and scroll through the options within my post-debt budget. Multiple bedrooms. Multiple bathrooms. These pictures look like they belong in magazines. These places have built-in heating and air. From actual vents. In the ceiling.
No. I’m totally delusional. There’s no way I can afford this kind of stuff. Let’s pop out a handy-dandy calculator and go through my finances one more time. With feeling.
…
I could buy a house.
An actual house.
If I stick it out in this crappy apartment until the new year, I’ll have enough money to get a down payment on a modest house with a mortgage low enough for me to afford a Publix cake every week. Which is, of course, a terrible plan unless I am also planning to become quite rotund in a vastly unhealthy manner, but you know something else?
I could afford a gym membership.
A quick, hopeful Google search informs me that, no, exercise doesn’t negate the effects of an unhealthy diet, so I’m glaring at my screen when my phone begins to ring. Without glancing too hard at where I have it set beside my laptop, I slide the FaceTime answer scroll.
“Hey, if you’re Brigid, leave your husband and move into a mansion with Penny and me. If you’re Penny, we’re moving into a mansion together. Help me convince Bridge to leave her husband.”
A distinctly low throat clear alerts me that I am talking to neither Penny nor Brigid. My attention flies toward my screen, which contains a face. A masculine face. A Ffff…face.
Thanks to all my good practicing, I swear, grab the loose neck of my pajama t-shirt—which contains roughly fifty holes from where the washed-to-death fabric has started to give up—and scoot back, frantic. I am only in a ratty t-shirt and a pair of underwear. And…and my camera is pointed at my ceiling.
Thank goodness my camera is pointed at my ceiling.
