Imani was just supposed to make sure that the lost dog got home safely, come back, and pretend like the mere thought of the owner with doe eyes and an armful of tattoos didn't make her question her entire belief system. Sounds simple enough...right...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
It's one of those days.
The ones where I find myself annoyed by nothing in particular, and everything that my eyes rest on makes the corners of my lips dip further down. Finding myself unable to pinpoint a solid reason for the way I feel only acts as a driving force for the bubbling frustration in my stomach, and everything in my line of sight blurs into nothing.
And ah, yes, my very own series of unfortunate events; glancing at the clock and getting hit with the realization that the tip of my pen has been hovering half an inch shy of the empty paper under my hand for exactly an hour and thirteen minutes, raising my head to first stare blankly at the wall, feeling the said stare slowly turn into a glare by the time my eyes fall on the window, followed by a wordless sigh.
Wordless, is what I naturally think, much like this sheet of paper, and frustrate myself some more.
It's funny, almost. The way writers seem to chase gloom before they consider themselves anywhere near inspired. I'm no exception to the ridiculous routine, and that's probably why the weather outside being pleasant on a constant only makes my nose scrunch further.
Like I said, no particular reason. The off-the-wall ones that somewhat go along the lines of, 'The sky's too clear for my liking' don't count, of course. Neither does the fact that I've gotten a little too used to working amidst all of the chaos happening around the house, and now that the catalyst to the said chaos is not home, the dead air seems to nip at my skin.
Most days, there's not much that I need to do to get my flair back. It's always something simple that helps—taking a break to eat something, painting my nails, sometimes washing my hair, too. Only on days like this is when I even consider going out on a stroll. Leaving the house isn't exactly my favorite thing in the world.
"Stare at that paper any harder and it's going to go up in flames," says a voice from the kitchen only seconds before there's the familiar sound of the fridge opening and closing, and I turn around just in time to glare at Layla, who sheepishly opens the fridge again and puts the half-frozen water bottle back inside.
"I thought we all agreed that you weren't going to mess up your throat anymore," I say right as Layla pleads, "Please don't tell Sean."
I try—keyword try—to raise an eyebrow at her and open my mouth to say something that would match the judgment on my face when someone else pads into the room.
"Don't tell Sean what?" Ved asks as he walks over to the couch, stretching his arms above his head and exposing a sliver of his toned, warm tanned stomach that would have both Layla and I giggling to ourselves like schoolgirls if this was a few years ago. Now we've grown woefully immune to it, so it's clearly not as fun anymore.
When Layla just shrugs in reply to his question, he turns to me, only to get the same half-assed response. "Don't know why I ask," he announces to no one in particular and sits down, now watching Layla begrudgingly getting herself some water from the tap. Only when she stands back and pulls the strap of her top back up while sipping on her glass do I notice her disheveled state. "Wild night?" Ved asks, beating me to it.
