Criminal VS. Criminal || мαℓιк

8. Second First Date Fail

8. Second First Date Fail

   Riiiiing!

   My tan hand moved up and down the bedside table, looking for whatever was trying to murder my ears. That's the thing about them, my ears and hands. They always had this strong connection. A couple years back, my right hand asked my left ear if they could go out, but my left hand was furious. Still, things can always work out. Now, my left ear and hand are happily married and so are my rights. It's a happy world.

   I felt the cold screen under my fingertips, gingerly pressing my pointer finger to what I thought would turn it off. My simple press turned into a wild search for the button. I hate touch screens. Finally, after clicking nearly everything on the screen, I managed to stop whatever that ruckus was. I sighed. Then I realized I was sitting up, looking down at my phone. Stupid cell phones and their ability to make things super loud. I let out a long breath, scratching the back of my neck. 

   It was Saturday, January twenty-six, and I was up at eleven o'clock. Why did I set my alarm on a Saturday? Do I have something important? I leaned over, snatching my phone off the table. Turning the screen on, the first notification I saw said, 'Date w/ Zayn' Oh hockey pucks!  I tumbled off my bed, falling down to the floor of hallway, the bedsheets attempting to murder me. I stand up as fast as possible, pulling the sheets away from my bare feet and carelessly tossing them onto the bed. I scold myself, telling myself to buy myself an apartment so I don't have to live in what is basically a closet.

   I pull open some drawers, not knowing what to wear. What do normal people wear in January? Clothes, clothes. What is clothes? Pulling out some floral jeans, a white, sheer panel crop vest, black heels, and curling wand, a rush into the bathroom. Pulling my clothing on, I managed to knock some sense back into my brain. I plug the hair curler into the wall, waiting for it to heat up. Good thing I bathed last night, I thought to myself. I applied a light amount of eyeliner and mascara, letting a light pink lipstick skim over my lips. I began curling the tips of my hair, not wanting to look like I tried too hard.

   For God's sake, I'm wearing floral jeans. Who the puck does that? More importantly, when did I even purchase these jeans? I looped a nude belt through my jeans in attempt to stop my jeans from sliding down.  I unplugged the curling wand from the wall, tossing it under the cabinet. I checked myself over in the mirror, making sure I looked like I didn't try too hard. Why do I care if I try too hard? I headed back to my bedroom, sliding my phone into my back pocket. 

   I left the bathroom, my heels clicking against the wooden stairs. I pulled my grey sweater out of the coat closet, slipping it on. I put my keys into my left pocket, buttoning up the front of the sweater. I would be taking a car there, so no need to worry. I fixed my hair once more before heading towards the door that connected to the garage. I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw Dad standing there, eyeing me suspiciously.

   "Where are you going, Max?" Dad asked, leaning off the wall and looking at me. He slowly walked towards me, eyeing my outfit. He looked somewhat offended by my clothing. I don't blame him, I do too. But seriously though, when the actual hockey pucks did I get these floral jeans? I don't even like floral jeans! Who the heck wears this? Grandmas?

   "I'm going on a date. 'Scuse me, Dad," I said, trying to get around him. Dad stepped in my way, stopping me from going anywhere. 

   "Who are you going on a date with?" Dad asked. It was then that I realized I had said date. Did I really consider this a date? Well, it was more of a get to know each other thing, not a date. So why did I keep referring to it as that? Why did I care if I tried too hard? And why was I wearing floral jeans?!