Life, Interrupted

I walked quickly down the hall towards my apartment; not because I was in any hurry to leave Gerard, but because, however lively I may have been feeling, my dear mother probably would not feel the same. Meaning, if she catches me sneaking back in (that is, if it even occurred to her that, usually, it does not take one seven hours to take out the garbage), she will undoubtedly be exceptionally pissed. But that’s a big “if.” I am the master of sneaking. . . fuck.

I’d been digging around in my pocked absentmindedly for about the past five minutes, only now realizing not only that I was looking for my keys, but also that if I’d looked for five minutes and found nothing, they probably just weren’t there to begin with. So, I amend my previously unfinished statement to say that I am the master of breaking into my own apartment. Let’s just say that my keys always seem to be elusive, spiteful creatures who take pleasure in disappearing whenever I need them most.

However, this is why I use bobby pins. After running my fingers through my hair, I managed to locate one of the fuckers, with which I quickly began picking the lock on the door before me.

Click, tap, slide. Finally. Getting faster every time, I thought sarcastically.

My fingers, clad in jagged nails and faded ink (from pens, I might add), wrapped around the grimy knob, turning ever so slowly. Wouldn’t want to disturb the bit—I mean, woman, who’s in there, now would we?

Now, don’t ask me how or why, but for some reason the door was actually a little bit bigger than the doorframe in some places, meaning that, even after laboring over the inexplicably rusting keyhole residing on it, one had to give the chunk of “wood” quite the shove in order to gain complete access to the hell that lies beyond it. Well, it’s really just a continuation of Hell, but that’s beyond the point. . .

Doing my best to throw my weight against it gently, I managed to get the door open without causing a disturbance. I painstakingly repeated the process after I entered, making sure to take my bobby pin back with me. You obviously never know when you might need one.

My ragged Converse shoes treading lightly on the abused flooring, I silently made my way through the kitchen and into my room. Shutting—and locking—the door behind me, I kicked off my shoes, cringing at the soft clomp they made on my threadbare carpet. I was moving quickly now, though, finally realizing that, Hello, it’s about three-o-fucking-clock in the fucking morning, meaning my brain wants to sleep.

So after yanking off my T-shirt and jeans—the latter taking significantly longer, I might add—and flopping down on my perpetually unmade bed, that’s exactly what I did.

. . .

“I'll keep dreaming
Not another word, sweetheart
Nothing is perfect, but it has to be someday
So I'll keep dreaming
We have to be someday. . .”

I woke up to my cell phone ringing obnoxiously. My attempt to ignore it was foiled when I fell out of bed when I tried to roll over. Deciding that as long as I was awake, I might as well answer it, I shook my jeans out, waiting for the tell-tale thump of the phone hitting the floor. Finally, I found it.

“Uhrm. . . Wha’sup?” I mumbled, really only partially conscious.

“Um, hi, it’s Gerard, is this Roxanne?” The slightly nasal, completely loveable voice on the other end questioned.

“Ah! Oh, um, yeah, hey, Gerard. Sorry, I like, just woke up. Argh, what time is it?” I moaned.

“Like, one-ish, I think. . .” he replied.

“Fuck. Well. . . Anyway. . . D’you wanna come over?” I asked him.

Gerard sighed.

“I mean, I like, totally get it if you’re busy, or something, or if you just, like, don’t want to hang out with me—” I started.

“No, no! I mean, yeah, I’d love to, but, uh, is your mom home, or anything? Like, will she mind. . . ?” I could imagine his perfect little face scrunching up a little, wincing at the thought of an overbearing mother.

“Oh, no, she’s not home. You’d probably have heard her by now if she was,” I reassured him.

“Okay. That’s good. . . So, um, what number are you?”

“Uhhh. . . 413.”

“Okay. You probably want time to get ready or whatever. . . I hear girls are like that,” he joked.

“Yeah. . . Um, you can come over, like, anytime after one-thirty, if that works for you,” I decided.

“Yep, that’s cool. I’ll see you then!” Gerard’s light-hearted farewell brought a pathetically large smile to my face.

“Yeah, talk to you later. Bye!” I hung up. Dropping my battered phone to the floor, I let out a rather indescribable sound that somehow was excited, annoyed, worried, and tired, all at the same time. Huh. Whatever.

I spent the next ten minutes in the shower (I’ll deny to the end that I am far from obsessed with showering, but the fact that I feel the need to say it sort of invalidates my protests, don’t you think?), and then wasted the next ten trying to decide what to wear and how to do my hair and makeup. Eventually, though, I just decided to wear whatever I thought looked awesome, and blow dry and brush out my hair. After all, anyone who judges me, as a person, on how expensive or “tasteful” my clothes are and how straight my hair is, is not someone I want to know personally. Or at all, for that matter.

Fortunately, I was saved from drowning in my unproductive thoughts by a soft knock on the door.

“Coming!” I yelled, half-walking, half-running through the house towards the source of the sound.

After fiddling around with the stupid key for what seemed like five minutes (I swear, that motherfucker wants to ruin my life), I finally managed to yank the door open.