Resentment - (18+)

C16

MIA

With all of the amazing inventions in the world, I am shocked that someone brilliant hasn't yet invented "Anti-Asshole Spray." It should be kind of like personal bug spray, but it should smell much better: You spray yourself with it, wait for it to dry, and for twelve hours, you are less susceptible to any asshole who may approach. This includes coworkers you don't like; ex-boyfriends who can't seem to get the hint; and a roommate/police officer who nearly has you arrested one day, and is currently standing in your kitchen and acting as if he's not eating the last of your Pop-Tarts the next.

"Did you buy those Pop-Tarts, Justin?" I ask, venom in my voice. I would tell him thanks for canceling those dumb-ass tickets he gave me mere minutes after he issued them, but since they were dumb in the first place, I'll act as if I know nothing about it.

"I'm not sure," he says. "I don't keep a running log of the groceries I buy."

"Well, I do. I keep a running log of the groceries I buy, and that Pop-Tart that's currently lodged in your mouth? I bought that."

"Good to know." He smirks.

"No, it is not good to know. It's good for you to stop touching my food and my things. You know you didn't buy those, so you shouldn't be putting your hands on anything that doesn't belong to you from here on out. Or else."

"Or else, what?" He crumples the wrapper and tosses it into the trash.

"Or else..." I just realize that he's only wearing a towel around his waist, that water is dropping from his wet hair and down to his chest.

"Or else what, Mia?" His towel falls to the floor and he leans against the counter, letting me get a full view of his cock. It's erect, and it's still as big as I remember, and my body is currently betraying me by getting aroused.

I shake my head and our eyes meet briefly before I grab my backpack and rush out of the condo.

This is so not going to work...This is so not going to work...

Later that day, I find a secluded spot in a coffee shop and continue to fill out job applications. I have two more weeks before I'll have to cave in and apply to a job that deals with my degree, just so I can earn money for a while, but I'm not giving up hope on a gallery.

Yet...

Most of the places I've put in applications for today, only pay minimum wage and are for people who "have a moderate interest" in art, but I don't care. I just need to be around something to gain some new inspiration and get back into the feel of painting every day.

As I'm refilling my coffee, I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. Eric.

"Hey, Eric," I answer.

"Hey. How are you doing?" The sound of tattoo needles buzzing is in the background. "How's your job search so far?"

"It's okay. Nothing special yet."

"Did you try the museum?"

"Submitted my application for that two hours ago."

"And the Art College?"

"Three hours ago."

"Good. I have an appointment with a client next Thursday who works in the office there. If you don't have anything promising by then, I can see if he can work something out for you."

"Thank you so much, Eric."

"Anytime. I'll be home late again today. You need anything?"

"Actually, yes, I do need something," I say. "I need you to put up rules in the kitchen."

"Rules for three people?"

"It's really just for one person, but we can pretend they apply to you and me, too. Rule number one: Don't eat all of the Pop-Tarts, especially if you didn't buy them."

"Can rule number two be don't buy twenty boxes of Pop-Tarts and not expect someone to take a few?"

"Twenty boxes? You're exaggerating. I bought two a few days ago, and as of today, they're all gone."

"Well, I just went home and there are like twenty boxes of Pop-Tarts on the counter, so either you're being ridiculous, or you have no idea what you're talking about."

I hang up and shoot him a text of eye-rolling emojis.

I start to fill out another job application and my phone rings once more.

It's an unknown number, but I answer it anyway.

"Hello?"

"Hello, may I speak to Mia Gray, please?"

"This is she."

"Hi, Mia! This is Michelle Henderson from The Hamilton Array Gallery. Do you have a few minutes?"

"Of course." I close my laptop and try not to get too excited.

"Great! Well, I'm calling to let you know that my team was extremely impressed with your interview, and we were even more impressed that you sent us photocopies of your collection the day after. That's not something you see every day and it was very unique."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome! That said, I would love for you to join our team as a curator, if you're still interested in working for us."

YES! "Yes, I really am," I say as calmly as possible.

"Great! Well, we still have a few formalities before we can start, but could you, by chance, bring over your tax identification forms and sign the paperwork I email you? Could you bring that by the office anytime this week?"

"Definitely."

"Okay, good. Also, one last thing. As far as the hours we discussed in the interview, just remember that you'll be responsible for a few weekends here or there for our more elite clients, and from Monday through Friday, you'll work seven to three, with some required overtime, if need be. Is that still okay with you?"

"It's more than okay." I'm really trying to hold back my excitement, but if this phone call doesn't end soon, she might discover that I'm a little too eager about this.

"Alright, then!" She says. "See you later this week, Mia. Have a great day."

"You as well." I wait for her to end the call and then I jump out of my chair, screaming "YES! YES! YES!"

Everyone in the shop turns to look at me, and I immediately sit back down again.

Acting as if that didn't just happen, I open my laptop and check my email. Miss Henderson has already emailed me, so I take my time and fill out all of the paperwork.

When I'm finished, I go to the copy shop across the street and print out the files. I take the bus four blocks down to the condo and decide to grab my tax information so I can have it ready for tomorrow.

The first thing I notice inside are the numerous boxes of Pop-Tarts on the kitchen counter. The next thing I notice is a black and white sheet hanging on the refrigerator.

Stepping closer, I notice that Justin's handwriting is in most of the boxes, but what's most alarming is the work schedule that's written in the corner of each one.

Seven to three.

Just like me.

The complete opposite of Eric.

Shit. Shit. Shit...

If I wasn't able to escape him before, I'll never be able to escape him now...