You exit your room, shoelaces untied and head to the bathroom. The door is closed.
"Who's in there?" You ask. The door is only closed if the room is occupied; due to the lock that broke four days after you moved in.
"Lydia said she was taking a shower." Mathew tells you from his seat in front of the TV where he is playing a video game with Chris. "Why?"
"I've an interview for the 'zine in," you check your watch, " twenty minutes and I need to brush my teeth."
You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose.
"Who takes a shower in the middle of the afternoon?"
And why did you have that garlic chicken for lunch?
"She slept late. But go in. She's not that big on privacy." He tells you. You know he's right. He had had a forty minute conversation with her two days previously. All of which took place in the bathroom.
You knock the door and push the door open slightly.
You hear her singing.
"You know you're a twisty little girl,
You know you twist so fine.
Come on and twist a little closer, now,
And let me know that you're mine.
Well, shake it up, baby, now, (shake it up, baby)
Twist and shout (twist and shout).
Cmon, cmon, cmon, cmon, baby, now, (come on baby)
Come on and work it on out."
"Lydia?"
"Jess?" She calls out from behind the shower curtain, "Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, I just need to brush my teeth."
"Oh okay."
You pick up your toothbrush from the window sill and glance back at the shower. "Nice song." You comment before putting the brush in your mouth.
"Everyone sings in the shower!" She retorts.
You spit and straighten up. "Not everyone."
She sticks her head around the shower curtain, her hair full of soap. "You don't sing in the shower?" She asks, lips pursed, eyes narrowed.
"Nope." You grin, knowing you do, and did, The Ramones, three days ago, when you knew the apartment was empty.
"Oh." Her eyebrows lift and her mouth becomes a perfect 'O'. "Okay." She shrugs and retreats back behind the curtain. You rinse your toothbrush and toss it back on the sill beside the half empty toothpaste tube.
"Later, Lyds!"
She replies in song.
"Twenty-twenty-twenty four hours to go, I wanna be sedated.
Nothin' to do and no where to go-o-oh, I wanna be sedated.
Just get me to the airport, put me on a plane.
Hurry hurry hurry before I go insane.
I can't control my fingers, I can't control my brain.
Oh no no no no no"
Damn. Clearly the apartment wasn't as empty as you thought it had been.
