Complementary

three

someday - the strokes

zayn

Twenty minutes after I leave Lou's and return to my apartment, I receive a text from Carlie telling me to pick her up at three.

And that's all it reads.

No expressive, selectively chosen emoji, no question as to how I'm doing. Just 'Pick me up at three'.

Somehow, that irritates me. She is a writer, for God's sake, who paints the picture of emotion through words that she strings together on her own. Yet her text message was plain, boring, and showed no initiative to start a conversation.

It was all-business, seemingly professional, and that is not how I thought tomorrow would be.

Yes, I understand I am doing her a favor for the sake of an element in her career, but the way she had spoken to me about the idea for her piece was not all-business. She spoke passionately, eyes ablaze, waving her hands about with the ghost of a smile on her pretty red lips.

I sigh, pushing myself off my bed and walking over to my dresser. It's just like me to overthink a simple text message like this.

I shove open my sock drawer and pull out a bag of weed and my bowl, ready for a smoke.

If this is how I'm going to react to a text from Carlie, it seems as if I am going to need to get high.

-

It's raining when I wake up the next day.

For an aspiring photographer with an increasing amount of anxiety, this only means a number of different things:

1. My hair will looked fucked up in the presence of an attractive girl.

2. I'll have to figure out a different lighting situation for her photos.

3. I am going to have to make sure that my camera - under any circumstance - does not get wet.

Already, this day does not appear as if it's looking up.

I push myself out of bed and check the time on my phone. 1:02 PM.

This leaves me just enough time to eat something, shower, gather my camera equipment, and pick up Carlie.

So I do just that; wake myself up with a bowl of stale cornflakes, spend too much time thinking underneath the hot water, and shove my numerous cameras into my camera bag.

After standing in front of the mirror and running my fingers through my hair a few times, I set out of my apartment building and slide into my beat up truck. It definitely isn't very suave, nor charming, but it's all I can manage to afford. I'm practically drowning in student loans.

I pull up in front of Carlie and Lou's massive mansion and text her, saying I'm outside. I'm not too keen on going inside, mainly because I'm looking to avoid any uncomfortable conversation between Louis, Carlie, and I. Surely he'd have something passive to say about me taking his stepsister somewhere alone.

I sigh and wait for her to come out until I see her in my peripheral vision. She's got the hood of her jacket up over her hair and red lipstick outlining her ample lips, chunky black boots on her feet. I can already tell she looks nice.

I reach over and open the passenger door just before she gets in, her scent immediately permeating my truck.

"Nice ride," she says sarcastically. "Quite rugged."

I try not to think about her vitriolic comment and huff, beginning to pull out of her driveway. "Hello to you too."

"I'm kidding, Zayn," Carlie nudges me with her elbow. "I genuinely like it. The truck suits you, I think."