The Sticky Note Chronicles

You know those feelings you get in your stomach, the kind you have when you’re nervous, anxious about something? That twisting, melting sensation, a certain tightness in your chest?
That’s just about what Norah was feeling at that moment.
The reason being, her solemn, monotonous boyfriend had finally sparked into an emotion.
That being – anger.
Accusations do generally lead to anger in some form, be it rage, vengeance, or just a festering sort of anger that’s quiet, but incredibly dangerous. It’s always the quiet ones.
Oddly enough, that very phrase was running through the mind of one rather startled Irish woman.
She wasn’t quiet expecting that reaction from her boyfriend. His nonchalant nature seemingly made him a very calm person, one who would not react with anger often.
“Guys PMS, I swear.” Was the thoughts that followed this famous quote.
His voice almost… meshed together into a sort of drone when he spoke normally, rarely rising and falling as a normal pitch does. But in this, his voice went up, and down, and up, and down. The redhead almost dizzy at the thought of a rollercoaster.
“Andrew…” She mumbled, her voice quieted, subtle. His face pink with anger, light breaths escaping his mouth as if he had just overexerted himself.
A quizzical look from the brown eyes he held.
“I was juss… wonderin’, is all. Okay? It’s nothin’ babe…” She reasoned, holding her hands up in an almost defensive manner, to protect herself from words that had been spoken.
This had started with the mere mention of one of Andrew’s… friends.
The girl practically laid all over him – no shame whatsoever! It had pissed the haughty Irish woman off, the way the girl acted so blatantly with her boyfriend.
But the way he never made to… stop it, or even really seem to mind…
Or even… seemed to like having her around.
Another twitch went through the woman’s eyebrow.
“Bloody harlot,” She had muttered the day they met, that slutty little brunette clinging to Andrew’s arm like it was a chocolate chip muffin.
They look that DD brunette had given her when she realized her and Andrew’s relationship. A look of, “Orly? How long is that going to last with me around? Hehehehe.”
“OH Andrew! You’re so strong, do you lift weights?”
“That’s soooo cool, I had no idea you liked Radiohead! They’re like, my favourite band!”
“Oh my god, really!? She said that? No waaay!”
Another twitch.
The woman’s voice was infuriatingly high, kind of nasally. It disturbed her to no end that she could even think she had a chance with Andrew – especially when he had her.
But her suspicions and anxiety had gotten the better of her. The way he smiled with her more than he did with the Irish woman. The way he spoke more, didn’t act so distant.
She had to ask. Had to find out if he was cheating on her…
And of course, that had gotten both of them to their present… state.
Andrew, infuriated that his girlfriend could think such a thing.
Norah, suspicious even now, at his defensiveness.

What a bloody great day.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

A thud – that of books slamming against the wooded floor; a sigh – that of an exasperated redhead woman; a slam – that of the door being closed ruefully.
Norah entered the apartment, noticing an odd change in the atmosphere almost immediately. The living room – which held the white couches, television, bookcase, lazy chairs, and such, was… no longer white. Or in order.
Everything had been pushed to the middle of the floor, newspapers scattered around the room. The sharp smell of paint drifting in the air, the light hum of an air purifier in the corner, trying to rid the room of the paint smell.
The room was purple. A nice, dark purple colour now on the walls, the paint looked evidently dry, for the most part.
“So this is what she does when she’s ‘ere…” She muttered, scratching the back of her head, the smell beginning to give her a headache. Glancing around the kitchen, she noticed closed paint cans, a bucket in which the used brushes were soaking in paint remover.
Inspecting the fridge, a large bowl of alfredo pasta was spotted, a grin on the woman’s face appearing. Taking out the bowl, she shoved the entire 4-person serving in the microwave to heat.
A though occurred within her mind, only after a moment. The hum of the microwave added to the odd, empty noise the room made.
Sticky note.
She didn’t see one. Glancing around her the kitchen, then following into her room, inspecting everything. There was no sticky note.
The woman felt some sort of… disappointment. As if some secret pact had been broken; and unspoken rule.
The microwave dinged, signaling the pasta was ready. Walking back out to the kitchen, she retrieved the large bowl and a fork from the drawer. Sitting upon the counter, she went to take a bite of the delicious smelling pasta.
Plap.
An annoyed look from the redhead, staring at the pasta that had fallen onto the floor from her fork. Sighing with the complete strain it was to get off the counter, grab a paper towel and pick up the pasta off the floor.
Opening the trash can, she was about to drop the soiled paper towel into the vat that was the disposal, but something caught her eye.
A yellow sticky note, crumpled on the bottom of the trash. Reaching within the white container, she faintly smelled coffee and… fish?
“Ickk,” She muttered, unrolling the sticky note to read what was printed on it.
Would Mel really go that far to hide the note?
You’re a really deep
sleeper, you know?
You don’t even wake up
when-
The rest of the note was scratched out furiously with blue pen, a quizzical look coming up on the Irish woman’s face. “When… what?” She muttered aloud, picking the mysterious Mel (who she had yet to see the face of) with a contemplative look.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

when I touch you.
Mel paused, her eyes staring at that line. How incredibly wrong it sounded. She hadn’t done anything perverted… really… sort of.
It all depends on perception.
Kissing a girl on the forehead when she slept – that wasn’t perverted. …Was it?
Scratching out the line, she paused again, looking at the note again. “Fuck,” she muttered, balling it up and throwing it within the trash can, hoping the woman wouldn’t find it.
There was a silence; it hung, weighing down the air in the room.
Distractions… distractions…
“I’m going to paint the living room,” she decided, grabbing her bag and walking out of the apartment without a second glance.