SENDER: blazemaster69@umail.com
SUBJECT: RE: SEEKING ROOMMATE – 2 Bdrm, 2 Bth (336 Bonny Link Drive)
BODY: r u a girl? Plz send pic
Ugh.
SENDER: jennyc_rose@myamazingdiet.net
SUBJECT: SEEKING ROOMMATE – 2 Bdrm, 2 Bth (336 Bonny Link Drive)
BODY: I noticed your username. Do you like to lead an active lifestyle, or is fitness a constant struggle? With a 30-day free-trial of the My Amazing Diet wellness plan, we'll have you feeling less "fat" in no time flat! Our beginner kit comes with a week's worth of easily assembled, low-fat meals, high-protein breakfast bars, and our award-winning cookbook!
Seriously?
SENDER: stevielaurenhigginbottom@mymail.acu.edu
SUBJECT: SEEKING ROOMMATE – 2 Bdrm, 2 Bth (336 Bonny Link Drive)
BODY: love your proximity to campus, but like is the "no smoking" debatable? I've got a dehumidifier!
Dude. I'm not looking for "Living With My Mother" round 2; I'm allergicccclowjfgnvrnvrnvrnvrnvr
I flatten my palms against the keyboard in frustration, the sort of thing that would have made excellent horror music had these been piano keys instead. Since putting a listing on Carter's List for the spare bedroom in my apartment, I have received exactly three, terrible replies. I'd always heard that this website was supposed to be the go-to for buying-and-selling of any kind what with its casual post format and lack of "stuffy" atmosphere typical to real estate related websites. I'll admit that I didn't expect a landslide of perfect applicants, but, holy shit, shouldn't there be more than a product-pusher, a chain smoker, and a potential, "tits or gtfo" internet troll?
A soft meow from below my feet precedes the pouncing of small, ebony feet against my lap. The newfound presence of Licorice as a copilot at my computer desk provides a welcome relief from my fingers assault of the home keys.
"Hey, cutie-pie," I coo, gingerly scratching at her salt-and-pepper chin, the only spot of variance about her would-be monoblack fur. "If only there were another roommate as perfect as you, huh? You would never smoke, you're not a misogynistic fuckboy, and you're arguably as chubby as I am—" I pause midsentence, as if the term "chubby" will feel as negatively-conditioned for her as it does for me, "—and darn proud of it."
Licorice circles my lap twice before collapsing into the cuddly ball of fuzz I know her to be. Deciding to wholeheartedly ignore the depressing scope of replies before me, I devote one hand—and one half of my attention—entirely to kitty snuggles whilst my other makes a tentative grab for my cell-phone, a model who had seen its height of popularity somewhere in the early 2000s what with its cherry red visage and outdated sliding-keyboard format.
"How about we give your aunty Clarrisa a call?"
The dial-tone greets me shortly after my thumb has made quick work of the only speed-dial I had bothered to program into this ancient hunk of junk. The phone rings only thrice before Clarissa McCabe's soft timbre reaches me at last.
"What's shakin', bestie?" Clarissa quips good-naturedly, and from the tone I can already tell that I have lucked out and acquired her presence at a time in which she isn't weighted down by the pressures of an overly-demanding office job.
"Rissa," I emphasize pitiably, "Save me from the grueling pursuit of cohabitation! I know it's Podunk, but come back already~"
A clipped sigh resonates on the other side of the conversation, executed a miserable three hours away in Spalding, Kentucky, before Clarissa responds. "You know I love you, 'llery, but, Jesus Christ, of course I'm never going to be about that life again."
Unfortunately, this reply was inevitable. Clarissa Leigh McCabe, after all, will always be the first person in the room to remind you of Norwich County's crowning achievement of the highest suicide rate in the entire state. To be fair, this statistic lends itself more to the Merryville half of Norwich—the half in which there is inexplicably even less to do besides go to one of the many churches peppering the town or, you know, the occasional tractor-pull.
"I feel you there, but picture this: I have the world's cutest cat in my lap, and you haven't met her yet."
Clarissa, although Norwich-grown, is not a product of Kentucky. In fact, she's not really a product of anywhere in particular. Before her father retired, her parents kept her moving around a lot, true to the "army brat" lifestyle. Perhaps it's because she knows what "better" looks like that she holds such a grudge for Merryville and Ascot both. Either way, no later than we had thrown up our high school graduation caps into the air had Clarissa made a beeline for the farthest applied university that would take her.
"How dare you! Reginald probably heard that, you know!" Clarissa replied, mildly aghast at the declaration. When it came to her chubby, middle-aged Persian, Clarissa was probably closer to hitting the "Cat lady" mark than me. The two of us share a teasing laugh, perhaps wordlessly agreeing to disagree, before she continues. "In all seriousness though, Elle, I know that this transition has been hard. I mean, life with Isaac is practically all you've ever known..."
I recoil at the mention of his name, and my body feels the sort of white-hot pain one only gets from touching the eye on a stove as a child, like me, too naïve to have known better.
"Y-Yeah," I agree, somewhat shakily, still taken-aback by the mention. "I'm just kidding, though. Of course, I'd never ask you to sacrifice your happiness for mine. Norwich sucks, 100%. It's just a little more like 110% in that shithead's wake."
The sympathy permeating the conversation is almost tangible through the phone.
"I've said it once, and I'll say it a thousand times. Isaac was a complete douche nozzle, and you were always going to deserve better than him. Just you wait until I win the lottery or take over this goddamn company, you'll be moved in with me and my slew of very hot, very shirtless mansion staff."
Our conversation takes a lighthearted turn very quickly after this quip, and, eventually, finishes on a very pleasant note when, as I often do, interrogating Clarissa about her culinary plans reveals that she has once again forgotten to eat.
"I better see a luxurious snapshot of a healthy meal on Photogram tonight, miss thang, or I'm going to personally order you three-hundred subway sandwiches."
Post-conversation, I feel reinvigorated to have shared the burden of single living with someone that knows it all too well. Clarissa, being drop-dead gorgeous, probably knows the pang of poor relationships far more than I. Only, unlike my situation with Isaac LeBlanc, her downfall has always been trying to find a deep connection that sees past her looks.
YOU ARE READING
Fat Purple Figs
RomanceEllery Young is twenty-three years old and far from mastering the world of adulthood she's been thrown into by stepping out on her own. As if this transition weren't hard enough, the plus-sized literary fanatic has been forced to take on a roommate...
