The Perfect List

-2

Tuesday, September 16

- Finish off King Lear + lit essay (due next Mon.)

- Pick up laundry

- Fill up gas tank

- Ignore Andrew.

..

My alarm goes off and I reach over, smacking it and it flies off the bedside table. Rolling around in the covers, I lazily drag myself out of bed.

I grab a towel and head to my small bathroom. The mirror reflects a zombie with smudged mascara that I didn't wash off properly and pale skin that makes me look like a sickly dying plant.

If Andrew so much as looks at me today, World War 3 will begin and he will be the first to die. I get that he was busy because the meeting was important but blowing me off without even bothering to text me and tell me and instead going off to some bar just hurts. And he could've said no to his boss and the drinks. He could've said he doesn't drink alcohol or made up some sort of excuse if last night really mattered to him.

I huff in annoyance as I step out the shower. Quickly, I blow dry my hair and pull it up into a messy ponytail, realizing I have no energy to face the day. At least I only have two classes, which happen to be Literature and History.

Cornflakes with warm milk and honey. It's the best way to start the day. I eat slowly, clicking my pen and looking over my daily list of things to do.

Carpe Diem, I whisper to myself as I get into my car, turning the heat all the way up.

..

"Your name, Miss?"

"Katherine," I reply as loudly as I can in the noisy Coffee Plaza as the woman scribbles my name onto the coffee cup with a black sharpie.

Carefully, I take the cup and make my way out the crowded space. The Coffee Plaza is the most popular place on campus, obviously, and really, why bother with Starbucks?

I take a seat on a bench just outside the lecture hall and pull out King Lear, half an hour early. I like being early for things. It's another trait I inherited from my mom. "Being early equals good preparation equals better results equals happiness" was another pep talk courtesy of my mother the day I turned 8 and didn't want to get changed for the small party my father had decided to throw me. I still don't understand it's relevance.

"Did you get home or did you spend the night wallowing under the stars?"

Hot coffee scalds my tongue as my hand jerks the cup at the sound of the deep voice. Turning to my right, I see The Pessimist. He's dressed in a plain black sweatshirt and faded jeans. I realize his hair is actually a honey brown color and apparently always looks as if it needs to be brushed.

He raises an eyebrow and I notice his eyes are an emerald green color, framed by long dark eyelashes, eyelashes that I could only achieve by wearing ten tons of mascara.

"I did, actually."

"Walked?"

"Bus," I say, returning my attention to my copy of King Lear.

"Oh, it must've pained you to do so, didn't it?" he says dramatically.

Annoyed, I turn to him. "I really don't appreciate your company.",

I refocus on the page before me, still aware of the figure standing beside the bench. I stare at the words, pretending to read but waiting for his shadow to move away. Eventually it does move, but he takes a seat beside me on the bench, scooting to the other end. I watch him from the corner of my eye as he pulls out his own horribly tattered copy of the play, opening to a page and folding the cover. That explains why the spine of the book is falling apart. I move slightly when he places his feet on the bench, so that he is directly facing me. Quickly, I return to the play.