You're Not Alone

I stared down at the mug of coffee that lay before me on the table. I sighed, dipping a finger in and swirling the lukewarm drink around, bringing my fingertip to my mouth and sucking off the drops of coffee.

I glanced around the kitchen. The once-spotless granite counter-tops were now cluttered with the empty packets of sugar used to make my several cups of coffee, some of my things, and the boxes from the Chinese food we had earlier.

So, being the neat-freak that I am, I decided to clean up the mess. I got up, the chair screeching across the tiled floor, and walked over to the counter.

I grabbed all of the sugar packets, crumpling them up into a ball and tossing them in the bin.

I peeked into the box of (what was left of) my Sesame Chicken, grabbing the box and deciding to save it for left-overs.

And then I thought, 'What the hell? Greyson's rich. He doesn't need left-overs.' and I scraped it down the garbage disposal. I could hear the little people in my head yelling at me for wasting food, but I ignored them.

I ran the water, sighing. Where could he have gone? I asked myself, biting the inside of my cheek. How could he have just left me there?

My eyes widened as a rustling sound came from somewhere close-by, followed by a little tinkling noise. I turned off the sink and reached for the wooden spoon in the little holder on the counter.

I crept forward, holding the spoon in front of me. “Wh-who's there?!” I called out, my heart beating faster as a relatively large 'thump' came from the other side of the wall. “I've got a gun!”

In all honesty, I didn't know what to expect. I thought it might be some sort of burglar or serial killer, standing in wait to eat my flesh. Hell, I thought it might have been a leprechaun, or a unicorn even.

I was not expecting what I had actually found.

Because what I had found was not a burglar or a serial killer. I did not find a leprechaun or a unicorn.

I had found a fat, orange cat who had somehow opened the lower cabinet, busted open a bag of flour, and had gotten his furry little head covered in the stuff.

“Meow,” he said innocently, followed by a sneeze. “Meow, meow.”

I set the spoon on the counter, letting out a shaky laugh. I crouched on one knee and held out my hand for him to sniff.

I brushed the flour out of his fur the best I could, giggling softly at how silly he looked. “You must be Spencer,” I murmured, glancing him over.

“Meow,” he confirmed, rubbing his head against my hand in an attempt to get me to pet him. I smiled. “You're cute.”

And then I noticed the busted bag of flour. “Fuck,” I muttered, picking up the sack and sitting it upright.

For a moment, I just stared at the mess, contemplating what to do.

Mopping was out of the question; I had no clue where the mop was. I couldn't just wipe it up, it'd take forever.

So I decided to go find Greyson.

I left the kitchen and traced my steps back to the lobby, going up the stairs on my left. I knew he wasn't on the first floor; he'd said that he'd be in his office on the second floor.

I mentally marked off all of the rooms as I passed them: bathroom, some kind of lounge, filing cabinet room (who has a room dedicated to filing cabinets?), and then, at the end of the hall, Greyson's office.

I knocked on the door as I walked in, eying Greyson. His glasses were too far down on his nose, his brown hair stuck up in random places on his head.

He took his glasses off and rubbed his eye. “Yes?” he asked, letting out a yawn.

I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat.

“Your cat spilled flour in the kitchen. Where's the cleaning stuff?”

He raised an eyebrow in a 'watch this' gesture and pressed a button on his desk.

“Hey, Juanita?” he asked the little intercom microphone. “The cat got into some flour in the kitchen,” he paused. “May you please clean it up?”

I furrowed my eyebrows as he waited for a reply.

“Yes, sir,” a heavily accented woman's voice came from the other line before it went quiet.

Greyson smirked up at me. “Thank you.” He took his hand off the button. “Juanita is the maid,” he explained, smiling. “There's an intercom system in almost almost every room of the house. Well, the bedrooms, the kitchens (we have two), and the dens, anyway.” He handed me a Sticky Note with what looked like a miniature telephone number on it. “This one's Juanita's number. Just ask if you need anything.”

I stared at him blankly. “I asked you where the cleaning supplies were,” I paused. “Not, 'Hey, Greyson! Make some poor lady clean up the mess.'”

Greyson sighed, putting on his glasses. “Ashlyn, dear...” he murmured fondly, picking up a Manilla folder and grabbing a pen. “Juanita is a human version of 409. Plus, I said 'please'. And 'thank you'.”

I glared at him. “You're a saint. You truly are.”

I walked out of his office and shut the door (harder than necessary, perhaps), walking back to the stairs; this time, going up.

Bathroom, closet, guest bedroom, Greyson's bedroom, and finally, my bedroom.

I opened the door, sighing. The walls were white and recently painted, the floor a reddish brown hardwood.

There was a full-sized bed with a flowered quilt, and all I wanted to do right then was to pass out on it for about twenty years or so.

So, not even worrying about taking my makeup off, I shed my jeans and crawled into the unfamiliar bed, closed my eyes, and tried not to cry over all of the things that had happened today.