Page 8 of Love Off the Rocks
“It’s not your fault.” She walks past me, patting me on the shoulder as she goes. “You were born this way. Lucky for you, I can help.”
I watch, still flabbergasted, as she rummages through her suitcase. Debating on making a run for it while she’s preoccupied. Even if there aren’t any other beds available, it’s got to be better than this. I can sleep on the floor. Or maybe on one of those big couches downstairs. Even a bathtub would work. If someone sees me, I’ll just pretend I snore and didn’t want to wake my roommate. What any nice and sensible person would do. I inch toward my suitcase, happy I haven’t unpacked yet, ready to grab it and go.
We bump into each other as she turns toward me when I turn toward the door.
“Here, this will get rid of all that negative energy in a jiffy.” I’m doused with the most foul-smelling stench ever created. If you mixed dead skunk with rotten eggs and a bag of fresh dog poo, it wouldn’t smell this bad—my stomach rolls.
“I’m going to throw up.” I drop my bag to cover my mouth. Everything I’ve ever eaten is roiling up my throat, threatening to come rocketing out my mouth.
“That means it’s working,” she beams.
“You’re psychotic.” I gag. “Oh god, really, where’s the bathroom?”
“Right through that door.” She points to my left. “And I’ll ignore the psychotic comment since sometimes the negativity within has to peak before it disintegrates. Also, not your fault,” she calls after me.
I race to the door and fling it open. My eyes film over. Heat envelops my body. Sweat beads on my face and underarms. I can’t breathe.
I’m dying. I know it.
I stumble toward what I think is the toilet, flinging the lid up seconds before draping myself over the seat and spew forth every ounce of liquid evil that she-devil forced upon me by way of my stomach contents.
“Uh, hello,” a voice says with a chuckle, “Occupado.”
I lean over to throw up again.
And again.
Before angling to rest my cheek on the cool porcelain of the toilet seat.
“Hey, I’m in the shower here,” the voice says.
I look up, my vision blurred. Ohmigod. I’m dying and she’s blinded me.
“Is that you that smells? What are you doing out there?” I hear rustling and the sound of water shutting off. “I’ll be out in a sec. My god, couldn’t you have used another bathroom? Are you ill? I think I’m going to puke.” Gagging sounds fill the room, this time not just my own.
I turn my head back into the bowl to wretch some more. “I’m being cleansed,” I groan, lifting my head only to realize, I’m not blind. The film over my eyes is just the steam from the shower.
Oh, holy fuck.
Someone is in the shower!
“I’m so sorry,” I say loudly into the bowl, hoping they can hear me, happy they can’t see me. “I didn’t realize you were in here. I didn’t look or see anything. My eyes are still shut. Just leave me here to die.”
The shower curtain slides opens and a blurry figure materializes. “Oh, you are sick,” the voice says. “Do you need a doctor? I mean, I’m not sure we can get one, but I’m sure there’s a first aid kit. Maybe some Pepto Bismol? Or Imodium AD? Whichever you need worse . . .” the voice trails off.
“I’m sorry for you, but that’s awful.” A towel over his face muffles the voice in what I imagine is an attempt to staunch the stench.
He steps out over the ledge of the built-in tub. I can barely make out a deliciously defined male chest and abs peeking from above the towel wrapped around the voice’s waist.
“At least I’m not going blind,” I mumble to myself.
“Is that smell . . . from you? Did a skunk spray you? Or?”
“My psycho roommate is trying to kill me. She sprayed me with some kind of noxious potion that’s supposed to clear me or cleanse me.”
His chuckle filters through the towel over his face. “Let me guess, you’re rooming with Brittni? She’s harmless. Mostly.”
I stand and move to the sink to wash my face. “What she’s done to me is not harmless. I’m going to need that shower if you’re through.” I splash water on my face, trying to rid myself of the smell in any way possible. “And I need to lodge a formal complaint with management.”
