[4]
“Why don’t you like your roommate?” He had asked one night and I nearly fell out of my chair.
“You asked a question,” I stated. Coffee Boy stared.
“Yeah. I did.”
That mission was accomplished.
“Jane is…” I started. “Jane has a great life but when you look at her you don’t think so at first. Because she has parents that are still together. And they’re still healthy. And she has a great younger brother who visits her so many times on campus. And she has a small group of friends she’s always with. And she has a nice boyfriend. But she’s always complaining about what she doesn’t have. I have to clean the room, her side too, all the time. I have to take out the trash. When I cook I have to make her food, too. I would be fine if she was like that and we both stayed on our own sides of the room, but she doesn’t do that. She comes right up and starts complaining and I want to tell her to piss off—really, I do—but I can’t because then I’ll be the root for all her disappointment and I don’t want to be. And what sucks is that I’m so far into the year that I can’t ask to switch roommates. And I have to have a roommate since I’m a freshman. Are you in college?” I finished with a question and a deep breath.
“I’m a junior.”
“Oh. Why is your dad so shitty?” I asked.
Coffee Boy looks at me; hesitates. I was now sat six seats away from him. I knew him for seven nights. Maybe the question had been too personal. Obviously was more so than asking why a roommate was so bad. I was about to get up when he spoke.
“He deals drugs. He never does the drugs, but he does drink. And he usually always comes home at night, hammered. My older brother would protect me from him when I was younger. But then I went to college and he accepted that I wasn't a baby anymore, so he left. He always said he would be there for me and I still think he would be if I called him, but I knew that he just really wanted out. I told him to go, too. And at first I was glad because I hated feeling so weak and like I was in debt to him or something, but then I realized that I needed him. Mike--my dad--makes me live at home for when he’s sick or has massive hangovers and can’t do anything and that makes me want to vomit, but I have to. And sometimes he says things; does things that he really shouldn’t but I can’t do anything because he could call his drug-dealing buddies over any second and pummel me to death. And I guess that even though Joshua isn’t home, I’m still weak.” He hadn’t looked at me once. And he had never spoken that much before.
“Who’s Joshua?” I asked tentatively.
“My brother.”
I knew that he didn’t want to answer any more questions so I got up.
“Good night,” he said.
A/N:
Vote? Comment?
-Nova.
