| 4 �Where do you keep the jam?� Blythe calls from the kitchen. I�m in the bathroom, wrapping my silky wet hair in a green towel. At least she waited until after I got out of the bath to start yelling. �It�s in the cupboard, Blythe. Where do you keep your jam?!� I�m starting to get sick of her. I was used to living by myself, having another person crying in the dark doesn�t suit the apartment. The water is bad for the walls - the flow of pained tears burn holes through the blue paper. I can see right into Mrs. Walker�s apartment now - I can see the plugged drains and the unlit hall. �In the fridge, where everyone keeps their jam,� Blythe calls, and I hear her wrench open a kitchen cupboard. She rummages around for a minute. Plates and bowls smash against the counter. I shudder. Is she this destructive in her own home? I lean over the bathroom sink, and brush my teeth. My small pink toothbrush looks large in my hand. I make tiny little strokes, and I spit carefully into the drain. I rinse my mouth, and place the toothbrush beside Sol�s in the drawer. I walk into the kitchen. Blythe is sitting on a kitchen stool, eating a piece of toast over the sink. �Use a plate,� I remark as I walk past her. Two cereal boxes are sitting on the floor. I give Blythe a glare, and notice that she doesn�t have jam on her toast. �Couldn�t find the jam?� �Nah. Besides, it doesn�t seem right to leave jam in the cupboard. I think it�s unsanitary,� Blythe says. Unsanitary! She is the woman whose husband is sleeping with a sleazy fitness instructor. God only knows how many diseases Brett has caught from Chelsie, and how many of those he has passed on to Blythe as a token of his love. I rummage in a cupboard, and find the jar of raspberry jam. It isn�t even open. I give the jar to Blythe, and she turns her nose up at it. �I already told you that I don�t want jam, Lucia,� Blythe says in a snobbish voice. �Thanks, but no thanks.� She stands up, and brushes the crumbs from her hands onto the floor before strolling into the living room. Blythe�s wearing Sol�s bathrobe again. The black one with the red tie around the waist. It doesn�t suit her at all. The shoulders are too broad, they droop almost to her elbows. Her small waist and big hips are exaggerated by the tie, and her overdeveloped breasts hang too low. Blythe�s bright red hair clashes with the blood red tie. She is a disproportionate hour glass. I can�t take my eyes off of her strange beauty. �What are you looking at? You can�t be mad about the jam thing,� Blythe hisses through her teeth. She is just as annoyed with me as I am with her. We are like two lionesses in heat, trying to avoid each other as much as we can but having to live together because of our family ties. We are sort of family, anyway - we have been good friends since high school. I am sure that is why we are so fed up with each other. Space makes the heart grow founder, but sometimes friendships can cause earthquakes. �No, no. Don�t worry about that,� I mumble, and sit on the couch opposite her. Suddenly, the telephone rings. It�s almost as high-pitched as Blythe�s giggle. She lunges and grabs the phone. The bright smile on her face could outshine the sun. She covers the receiver. �It�s Brett,� Blythe tells me. I knew it was him before she told me. The room was silent for a minute. From the spare bedroom, I could hear Blythe�s clock ticking away the seconds. She sighs. Her eyes are welling up with tears. �Oh, I love you too, honey. I miss you so much,� she gushes. I roll my eyes. He apologized. The slimy bastard wants her back. �I love you�, he�s probably saying, �it�s never going to happen again.� I know it will. I can guarantee it. I will give him until the end of the month before he sneaks to some other floozy�s house and breaks Blythe�s heart for a second time. �Of course I�ll come back tonight. Hell, I�ll be back in ten minutes. I love you so much,� she says and hangs up. �Brett apologized for everything. He feels horrible for sleeping with that girl. He wants me to move back in tonight,� she says without taking a breath. I smile and nod. �That�s nice,� I say, even though it�s not. At least she will be out of my apartment in a few minutes. Blythe quickly grabs her few possessions from around the bathroom and living room, and dashes out the door. The mouse has run toward the mousetrap again, eager to grab the cheese, but unaware that it will be caught by the cold snare. I sit, exhausted, on the couch. Everyone has moved on, and left me here. They have all kissed and made up. Even Mrs. Walker has traded in her usual arguing and complaining for her television and a nice bottle of scotch. Page 5 More Stories Lair Homepage |