RockFan
3
I stared at my bowl of mac and cheese in the microwave, spinning around to the humming of the appliance. I didn't feel like cooking a real meal, how do you even cook for one person anyway? After work I bought a bunch of single-serve frozen meals and mac and cheese cups, it just simplified things. The microwave chimed and I opened the door and carefully took out my steaming dinner.
I went to the fridge and took out a Diet Coke and switched on the TV to watch the five o'clock news. I tried to focus on the terrible news around the world. A war in the Middle East, a family murder/suicide in Los Angeles, and a hurricane tearing through Puerto Rico with numerous people already killed. So many people were in pain just like me, or worse.
I looked over at the empty seat adjacent to mine, the place my father occupied just days ago. My heart pounded in my chest, my dark eyes filled with tears. I bit my sleeve to keep myself from sobbing too loudly, yet my breathing turned into hyperventilating. I didn't want my neighbor to hear me, these apartment walls were thin and there was too little privacy between tenants.
I sighed deeply, and then began to calm my breathing back to normal. I told myself silently I was okay, I was a grown woman, and I could eat dinner by myself. I wiped my face dry with my sleeves and looked down at the less steamy mac and cheese. I dug my fork into the bowl and began to eat. I stared at the TV screen, I heard the newscasters voices, but I didn't take in anything that they were saying. Tonight there was no news to report, at least not to me; the newscasters were simply on to keep me company and comfort me with their background voices.
*
I sat at my desk, two windows minimized side by side on my laptop. One window was a review I was currently writing about a local band I had gone to see two weeks ago at the club Mixers, a poppy-punk band called The Vemonators. The other window was for brainstorming questions I would ask Green Day for the upcoming interview. My column about The Vemonators was basically complete, it just needed some last minute editing. My questions, however, were lacking as everything I came up with was not good enough or too typical.
This was our first, and maybe only shot, to nail an interview with a big-name act, my questions needed to be flawless and intriguing. I still couldn't really believe that Green Day would be here in a week; I had no clue that Tim had it in him to be so convincing. I knew deep down I could pull off a wicked awesome interview, my only real fear was that Green Day would cancel on us. If they did, though, I'd waste no time ripping them to shreds in our next magazine and trashing their beloved American Idiot no matter how amazing it was. When it comes to revenge, it's nice to be a published journalist.
"Hey," Tim said, approaching my desk, "How're we doing?"
"Decent," I said, glancing up at him and then back at my laptop.
"Decent? Should that worry me?"
"No. The Vemonators article is practically done, and I'm working on questions for Green Day."
"I miss your smile," Tim said, and I looked up at him, taken aback by his unexpected words.
"Tim, don't get creepy on me."
"I'm not creepy, I just...I don't know. You used to be a ball of fire."
"Tim, it hasn't even been a full week since my dad died. I'm still a ball of fire, it's just...my flames are a bit depressed right now."
"If there's anything I can do-"
"I know, Tim. Thanks."
He nodded and retreated away from my desk, back into his office. I watched him as he walked away from me and out of sight. I knew Tim was worried about me, and about the quality of my work, now that I was dealing with the sudden death of my father. I knew Tim was growing more and more anxious about me blowing this interview as the date drew closer. I couldn't do anything about those worries now, I just needed to concentrate on flawlessly executing my article with Green Day and proving to Tim that I was still his most valuable writer.
I went to the fridge and took out a Diet Coke and switched on the TV to watch the five o'clock news. I tried to focus on the terrible news around the world. A war in the Middle East, a family murder/suicide in Los Angeles, and a hurricane tearing through Puerto Rico with numerous people already killed. So many people were in pain just like me, or worse.
I looked over at the empty seat adjacent to mine, the place my father occupied just days ago. My heart pounded in my chest, my dark eyes filled with tears. I bit my sleeve to keep myself from sobbing too loudly, yet my breathing turned into hyperventilating. I didn't want my neighbor to hear me, these apartment walls were thin and there was too little privacy between tenants.
I sighed deeply, and then began to calm my breathing back to normal. I told myself silently I was okay, I was a grown woman, and I could eat dinner by myself. I wiped my face dry with my sleeves and looked down at the less steamy mac and cheese. I dug my fork into the bowl and began to eat. I stared at the TV screen, I heard the newscasters voices, but I didn't take in anything that they were saying. Tonight there was no news to report, at least not to me; the newscasters were simply on to keep me company and comfort me with their background voices.
*
I sat at my desk, two windows minimized side by side on my laptop. One window was a review I was currently writing about a local band I had gone to see two weeks ago at the club Mixers, a poppy-punk band called The Vemonators. The other window was for brainstorming questions I would ask Green Day for the upcoming interview. My column about The Vemonators was basically complete, it just needed some last minute editing. My questions, however, were lacking as everything I came up with was not good enough or too typical.
This was our first, and maybe only shot, to nail an interview with a big-name act, my questions needed to be flawless and intriguing. I still couldn't really believe that Green Day would be here in a week; I had no clue that Tim had it in him to be so convincing. I knew deep down I could pull off a wicked awesome interview, my only real fear was that Green Day would cancel on us. If they did, though, I'd waste no time ripping them to shreds in our next magazine and trashing their beloved American Idiot no matter how amazing it was. When it comes to revenge, it's nice to be a published journalist.
"Hey," Tim said, approaching my desk, "How're we doing?"
"Decent," I said, glancing up at him and then back at my laptop.
"Decent? Should that worry me?"
"No. The Vemonators article is practically done, and I'm working on questions for Green Day."
"I miss your smile," Tim said, and I looked up at him, taken aback by his unexpected words.
"Tim, don't get creepy on me."
"I'm not creepy, I just...I don't know. You used to be a ball of fire."
"Tim, it hasn't even been a full week since my dad died. I'm still a ball of fire, it's just...my flames are a bit depressed right now."
"If there's anything I can do-"
"I know, Tim. Thanks."
He nodded and retreated away from my desk, back into his office. I watched him as he walked away from me and out of sight. I knew Tim was worried about me, and about the quality of my work, now that I was dealing with the sudden death of my father. I knew Tim was growing more and more anxious about me blowing this interview as the date drew closer. I couldn't do anything about those worries now, I just needed to concentrate on flawlessly executing my article with Green Day and proving to Tim that I was still his most valuable writer.