It's one of those day, where I all I want to do is nothing. Not even watch TV or listen to music or even lay in bed.
I'm on the couch in my apartment, just absently staring up at the blank ceiling. My usual thoughts seem to stop for the day. Everything around me is calm and silent. My eyes are open, but I feel asleep. In a dream where nothing moves and everything is glued in place.
But then I hear banging against my door.
And the reality of everything comes crashing on my shoulders.
"Tippy! Tippy, I know you're in there!"
It's an all too familiar voice but holds more of a slur this time. A voice that can plagued my mood in an instant. I've grown such a concentrated hate for it. That voice had a pair of striking blue eyes. Blue. It's always Blue. When wasn't it Blue? Anything nowadays involving the destruction of my mood or the turning of my stomach, Blue is not too far away. Even when my days are feeling like nothing, he makes them feel like something. And I hate every second of it.
I should just ignore him. Leave him banging against the door like the fool he is. But my legs ache to move, so they do as if they have a mind of their own. I firmly grip the doorknob and yank it open so I wouldn't have time to hesitate. An inevitable stench of beer reaches my nose, and I've opened the door in time to see the blonde stagger back a few steps, tripping over his own feet as if they're too big. He curses under his breath as he uses the wall for support.
His eyes are wide and wild as if he just finished a marathon or just witnessed a brutal murder. His hair is as if he ran his hand through it a few too many times. His clothes are wrinkled and awkwardly clinging to his body. He's grinning like a mad man with his shoulders shaking as he tries to stifle a giggle.
It takes every square inch of my strength and will power to prevent myself from slamming the door in his drunken face. But the only question flashing in red in my head is: how the hell did he figure out where I lived? I'm infuriated by him, just like any other day I see him. But this time it's like a shadow creeping over me, slowly consuming any upside thought. This clumsy blonde has damaged me in ways that I can't quite describe in words, but with the nail marks bored in the palms of my hands.
"Tippy, I came to realize that I only... bump into you at the bar... when it's raining. So tell me... Tippy... why do you only drink... when it's wet outside?"
I slam the door, not caring what got in its way.
