Perfect Strangers

"I am not going down there." I state to the black abyss without a hint of irony. Scary, unfinished basement you have won. Now, let me just get through the rest of this itsy bitsy blackout without any electricity. Easy...Just say no to warm food, television or internet for the foreseeable future. Ride out the humid summer storm in complete lack of comfort...Shit.

I should have known better than to say yes when Sierra asked me to house sit while she and Eric went off to Bali for their honeymoon, but I felt really bad for the pathetic excuse of a human being I became during their reception. Alcohol and I are no longer friends, or at least not currently on speaking terms. I really should blame them. They shoved me at the singles table with every age appropriate lawyer, doctor and independently wealthy man they could muster up. It was not going to end well.

I should have just apologized with the gift of wine. Living alone in a creepy, dark farmhouse for two weeks is so not worth it. Even if I did mention how I accidently bore witness to their first time doing the horizontal mambo together in my speech. It started out simply enough, with me stating the irony that she now teaches physics to eleventh graders. The irony being that she couldn't remember that if a bed is hitting a shockingly thin wall on one side, if someone has a giant bulletin board hanging on the other side; it tends to also move with a matching frequency. How was I to know her mother thought she wasn't lying with the white dress like every other self-respecting daughter? Especially, with the way those two go at it like bunnies.

I woke up the next morning with the hangover from hell, and a new contact in my phone labelled 'Prince Charming'. No picture, no memory, just one confusing monicker among the rest. He now lives between 'Partly bald, but a very nice guy from the street' and 'Questionable gender guy from bar'. Safe to say, that night wasn't a witness to some of my finer moments. I look over at my phone sitting innocently on the coffee table in the living room, wielding my flashlight like a knife. The beam is thin enough, it just might qualify as one. Oh, maybe I should call someone to come and flip the fuses for me. They wouldn't at all laugh at my fear of dark, creepy basements. Who am I kidding? What grown twenty-seven year-old woman is still scared of a silly, little, scary-as-shit basement? Oh right, me.

I slam the door shut, and squeak at the long and prolonged creak that echoes through the small kitchen. It's a nice kitchen, really. Nice in the daytime, I mean, with sunlight streaming in and reflecting off the pleasant, yellow walls and pine cabinets. At night however, I feel like an eight-year-old again. All the dark shadows of still somewhat unfamiliar moonlit objects give me the chills. With only a flashlight to guide me, even the tiniest movements make strange thumps accompanied by the staccato rhythm of the rain battering the roof.

I fumble my way over to the cabinet holding my quarry, tequila. I know I said alcohol and I have a rocky relationship, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and these are desperate times. I take a swig straight from the bottle, leaning against the counter. I stare at the basement door, visible in the thin beam from my flashlight, in cold determination. The shutters outside slap around in the heavy winds, shaking my confidence with every rattle.

I should just go read a book by candlelight. Live it up middle ages style. Who cares if all the food in the fridge will go bad because it's a bajillion degrees outside and all cooling appliances are now non-functional? Oh, just the wonderful owners who lovingly saved two pieces of their wedding cake in the freezer for a post-honeymoon celebration. Ugh.

I take another long sip of tequila, feeling the burning liquid collide with my throat. I walk over to my cellphone and start going through the contact list. My parents? Nope, don't be ridiculous. My ex-boyfriend who lives in the other side of the world now? Silly, so silly. Prince Charming? No, just, no. I may be curious about the anonymous contact, but calling some stranger to solve my problem is a terrible idea. A no-good, tequila-fuelled whim I must resist. I have to do this for myself...somehow.