Ian Matters

I wake up face down on a couch and for a quick moment I'm not entirely sure where I am before I realize oh, I am twenty three, and this must be my apartment. It is, obviously, it's just hard to wake up from the dreams where I'm nine years old again and wrestling with the neighbours labrador.

The television is on but it's static on the screen and through the speakers and I yank the remote from underneath me and flick it off, rolling over. Same cracks in the ceiling, same bumpy white surface. Same squishy green couch, same dirty clothes that I absolutely have to wash.

I don't want to get up today. When I look out the balcony door near the couch the sky looks like shit and there are trees shivering, sun nowhere to be seen and I don't even want to bother looking for it. It's probably going to rain, I'm not going to go outside today; I roll back over and bury my face in the lumpy arm of the couch and I'm not any less uncomfortable.

There are footsteps and I turn my head up and Sal is there, half naked in her underwear, carrying a dirty mug.

She doesn't acknowledge me and goes into the kitchen and I rub some of the sleep from my right eye. “I fell asleep on the couch.” It sounds more like a statement then a question but I trust she catches my drift.

She turns on the sink and water comes rushing out loud and cold onto the dirty dishes sitting in the bottom of it, “I tried to wake you.” I sigh and push myself over onto my back again, trying to get comfortable again.

“Can you make me some eggs?”

“Not your wife.” She dismisses the notion simply enough. That's so like her, and I am definitely awake now.

“What time is it?”

“Are you a cop or something?” A hand appears beside my head holding a mug and I look up and back and she's looking down on me, pale and serious. I sit myself up and take it from her. “I have to leave in a little while so if you need to use the washroom do it soon. I've got to shower.”

Whatever is in the mug is dark brown and boiling hot, I can't tell tea from coffee. Whatever it is will suffice. I put my mouth to the rim of the mug and test the temperature with my lips.“Where are you going?”

“Guy I told you about, Jude Gole.” She replies shortly – Jude Gole is a pervert. He's like the Terry Richardson of Canada, if you're wondering. He'll take pictures of Sal and then it'll turn out there was no film in the camera. “I have a shoot.”

I give her a smug look. “You're finally making it big.” The joke doesn't amuse her.

Sal is a model. Or, an aspiring model. Twenty three years old and very eager, though she may not seem like it most of the time – totally for nude modeling, by the way, though her parents don't seem very pleased with that. On the side she's my positively cock-obsessed, unconcerned-with-most-things, best-friend-since-highschool roommate who, as you can tell, hates clothing. “Side note, Frank's also asleep in my room.” She's rinsing dishes now.

Funny thing about Frank and Sal, they seriously dislike each other. Their personalities are not two that attract and they claim to have nothing in common when truthfully they're both stubborn and sufficiently angry for no reason half the time, which, personally, I think should be just enough to be in love – they could hate people together and have good-looking, world-hating babies together. Anyway, their “sexual” compatibility cancels out their personalities incompatibility. Or so they say. Sal thinks he tries too hard to be hard. He claims to hate most of the world and likes to listen to fast music where there's screaming instead of singing. He's got olive skin covered in tattoos, black hair, hazel eyes. He had some piercings in the past that she has a theory about that implies he woke up one day and decided he's too hard even for those.

In short, the only reason for her tolerating him is that he'll stay the night, ride her like a bull and keep her up with orgasms. She doesn't like the guy, but for her it's one thing to like a guy and a complete other for them to turn her on.

“Just in case you hear a noise and think someone stupid enough is trying to rob us.”

“Yes, rob us of all our expensive luxuries.” I joked, she gave a brief half-smile. Half-smile's were grinning and chuckles were crippling laughter. I sip the tea she gave me. I started to drink it too late, and now it's not hot enough. “Were you here when I got home last night?” She nods.

“I put you on the couch. You were drooling everywhere. I thought you'd appreciate a dry mattress once you sobered up.”

“Thanks.” She nods again as her you're welcome to me. “You know you should come out one night with me, to a party.”

She grunts and reminds me, “I don't want to party, Ian, I want to get laid.”

I chuckle and nod, “I know, but by anyone in particular?”

She shoots a sarcastic smile, the most common kind that comes from her, “By sober men.” She replies dryly, “Not drunk frat boys.” She scowls down into the sink and sighs, stopping, turning off the sink, “Will you finish these, I have to shower.” It's not a question. I nod, she disappears down the small hall of our apartment and I hear the bathroom door slam shut.

I'm hungover but it doesn't bother me like it used to. My head aches but it's not bad enough for it to actually bother me, hangovers stopped bothering me on my last birthday – and what a birthday that was. A hotel suite all strippers and liquor and loud music with about a million people cramped inside. Of course Sal sat arms crossed with a scowl on her face the entire time, but she did end up having sex by the end of the night so she didn't totally hate me the next day.

She's never very impressed when I'm drunk or hungover, she's not big on alcohol, never has been. The only alcohol she'll ever really drink are coolers and drinks masked with fruit. She can be a real beast when it comes to shots, though. People wouldn't think it, and most don't believe me when I tell them, but I've seen it with my own two eyes and it's truly a sight to be seen.

I don't know exactly how long I've just been bumming around on the couch for when Sal emerges from the hall again in a pencil skirt and a blouse with heels hooked in her fingers. She's slipping them on when she says to me, “Make sure he doesn't smoke in here, either.” And then she's gone. Frank smokes cigarettes, that doesn't impress her either.