Moving On

Moving On (3)

Chapter Three

My neck felt oddly stiff. I had the urge to crick it, so that it would feel better. I groaned and slowly opened my eyes, knowing I had probably fallen asleep in an awkward position, which was probably why I felt like this right now.

The first thing I saw as soon as I opened my eyes was my diary. It was laying open and I frowned, wondering why I had left it like that last night. I had fallen asleep on the couch, but due to my stupid sleeping patterns, halfway through the night, my head had fallen off of the sofa and was hanging off of the side for the rest of the night. That was probably why my neck felt as if someone had stuck it in a headlock for a really, really long time.

I groaned and attempted to get off the sofa in an orderly fashion but I ended up falling off of it, landing with a huge thump on to the wooden floor.

"Argh!" I yelled. Ouch. Crippled, I crawled to my diary. I was about to close it when I saw some scribbling across the page in green-colored pen.

"Morning, Alia. Thanks for trying to murder me last night. A metal pot? Really? That's okay though, 'cause you passed the first test. Meet me at The Chocolate Room at one. Dress nicely. -Vincent. P.S, if you don't come, I have the metal pot with your fingerprints on it and I could easily take it to the police. See you at one!"

I screamed. "VINCENT, YOU FRIGGING MORON!"

An hour later, I was grumpily standing on the streets, trying to hail down a taxi, which was already proving to be an impossible feat.

Finally, a taxi slid past me and slowly screeched to a stop. I sighed in relief, got into the car and asked the driver to take me to The Chocolate Room. He nodded and we were off on our way.

I was wearing the same turtleneck from last night, but opted to wear black washed jeans instead, so I wasn't as formal. I dug my diary out of my black bag and started to write.

Dear Diary,

Vincent is a jerk. And I'm extremely stupid for hitting him with that pot. Now he's using it against me. How sad is that?

Apparently I passed his test. I mean, what the heck is that supposed to mean? I don't even want his help! What makes him think I need help anyway? So what if I'm still sad about my break up? So what if I still miss my ex even if he was an absolute jerk? Since when has that been classified as a crime? Please tell me, 'cause I'm really clueless.

Now he wants me to come to The Chocolate Room, and I have no idea what he plans on doing or how he plans on angering me today. I would really regret it if I had to replay the incident that went down in my apartment last night. And this time, there would be no chances for cover-ups.

I hate him. I hate him so much. All guys are jerks. Except for my taxi driver. He's driving slower so I don't mess up my writing. How nice is that?

"Ma'am we're here."

I groaned, swapped my diary for my wallet and got out of the taxi. I paid the taxi driver, adding a tip just because of his niceness and walked to the restaurant.

I glared at the shiny orange words against the dark brown backdrop and really hoped Vincent would not make a scene here. The Chocolate Room was quite a popular restaurant. Many rich people and their associates came here to dine. I would hate to embarrass myself among people that deserved to be on the cover pages of magazines.

I walked to the front door just as Vincent stepped out. He saw me and smirked. Of course. Is there anything his lips could do other than smirk? Apparently not.

"Oh good! You're here! I was on the verge of sending a rescue team on a search mission or calling you up to threaten you some more about that metal pot."