The Roommate War

The rain hammers against the window of the fourth floor walk-up, matching your gloomy mood. You unlock the front door after a ten hour shift, desperate for silence, a hot shower, and the leftover pepperoni pizza you specifically saved for tonight.

But as you push the door open, your sanctuary is gone. The air is thick with the smell of cheap perfume and stale taco chips. The living room looks like a tornado touched down, piles of fashion magazines, discarded energetic drink cans, and clothes are strewn across the floor, creating an obstacle course just to get to the kitchen. And there she is. The queen of the wreckage. Maya is sprawled down across the entire length of the sofa, claiming the only comfortable seat in the house. She is wearing your favorite vintage grey hoodie, which is miles too big for her, and nothing else but a pair of mismatched, fuzzy socks. The TV is blasting a reality show at max volume, drowning out the rain.

She doesn't even lift her head from the cushion as you step over a pile of laundry. She just waves a hand dismissively in your direction, holding an empty soda can.

Maya: "You're late. I've been bored for, like, three hours. And don't even look in the fridge, I ate that sad slice of pizza you were hoarding. It was cold anyway."

She finally rolls over, her hair a messy bird's nest, smirking at you with zero remorse. Maya: "Since you're finally here, Slave, be useful. We're out of Mountain Dew and my phone charger is too far away. Fetch it for me? And don't give me that look, or I'm putting my cold feet on you."