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He snickers.
“And I am eating some of your pizza, because you owe me dinner after ruining the rest of my food tonight.”
He cocks an eyebrow at me. “I owe you dinner? Fine, this weekend, I’ll take you to dinner.”
“No. I meant the pizza. The pizza will suffice. I’m going to take half of it and eat it in my room, so I don’t have to look at you and your…” I gesture to his dick print.
He looks down and then that brow shoots up again.
“Wearing underpants is a good idea,” I remark.
“Thought you didn’t like when I walked around here in my underpants… thought I was bein’ a better roommate…”
“No…not what I…”
He’s fighting off laughter. He totally knows what I mean.
“Grrr!” I’m doing a terrible job of hiding my frustration. I storm to the bar, grab the two plates and scrape them into the trash and begin cleaning up the mess.
“You wearin’ underwear? If you want me in them, all right, but you don’t have to follow the same rule,” he says this directly into my ear, and his mouth actually connects, though briefly, and then he moves to the fridge with the hot sauce and the bottle of teriyaki sauce.
I’m ready to tell him to fuck right off.
I stop myself. No. I need to keep this professional. Or, try to get it back to professional somehow.
“How about this? We go back to professional. Professional colleagues who have to share an apartment. We’re both fully dressed outside our bedrooms, we both buy our own food, clean our own mess, and treat one another respectfully. How’s that?”
He smiles. There’s deviousness there.
“What?” I demand.
“Nothin’. You want this to be purely professional, you got it, peaches. I’ll remember to boss you around extra at the office.”
What a jerk.
How much would it cost me to get my own apartment? I get paid next week. Could I swing it?
“Let me know when my half of that pizza is here.”
I storm to my room and slam the door.
***
No more than a half hour goes by when I hear knocking. Loud knocking.
I’ve been Googling apartment rental prices. I can’t afford my own apartment right now. Not with deposits and all that jazz. There’s always a roommate but I haven’t had the best luck with roommates. Neither at home nor here.
I open my door. It’s the front door. Is it the pizza?
More knocking.
“Aiden?” I call out. No answer.
I head to the door and look out the peephole. Pizza.
I open the door.
Pizza guy smiles and looks down at the receipt taped to the box. “$42.50, please.”
