The Plastic Cup Of Friendship

1

"Cassandra!" I hear Maggie yelling at the top of her voice. Despite her croaky throat, she managed to get her ass up early in the morning - way before me.

"Coming!" I yell back in an equally resonating decibel. I shove the last item on my checklist into the attaché and close the lid instantly - thus avoiding the much predicted act of tumbling of the entire clothe-cornucopia down the messed up, crinkled sheets.

"Cassandra!" This time, it's Phoebe's shrill voice that sears through my eardrums. "I'm coming, I'm coming!" I ululate: half whining, half fed up. With as much force as I could muster, I jump on the attaché-lid and try to get the two toothed edges together so that I can get the sliding tab to move and finally end this horrendous ritual of packing up.

Just as I finally get the two toothed edges to hug and meet, my phone begins to chirp. Tweet, tweet. Tweet, tweet. I mentally curse myself for picking Eliza Doolittle for my ringtone. Good thing I keep my phone on auto-answer. Though it has proven disastrous many a times, yet, right now, I feel the embarrassment of those past moments dissipating. I knew this would come in handy. I knew it! Ah yeah, ah yeah! I do a quick celebratory dance but as soon as I hear the voice of the caller, I stumble on a stupid squeaky dog toy and fall flat on my face. I'm pretty sure I've broken my proboscis. I bring my fingers to my shiny, sebaceous nose and start to massage it softly, as if this particular action would somehow heal it.

"Cassandra, if you don't get your fat ass down here this instant, we're gonna leave right without you!" Kim's voice booms from my cellular-phone's speaker. I just grumble obsolete profanities under my breath, yet making them loud enough that they're transmitted electromagnetically from the device to finally enter Kim's receiving ear.

Finally, the tab is sliding, interlocking the alternate indentations. Thank God. As soon as the tab reaches the end of its short-lived journey, I grab the suitcase, pulling it off of the bed's near-edge, displacing the already disheveled and wrinkled sheets in the process. The case lands on the wooden floor with a loud thud. The tyres on the base of the now vertically positioned attaché click twice and then weakly, a third time as they touch the aged lumber.

I drag the case along a few inches. All of a sudden, I feel as if my heart is going to pump right out of my chest. I twist back around to run a bird's eye view across the entire length of my room. Yeah, I sure did some crazy things around here. Crazy stuff that I might regret telling my grandkids one day, in case they turn out to be crazy - or even crazier if that's possible - like moi. I don't want them to get any ideas...

"Cassandra, you fugly bitch. Are you fucking deaf?" I mentally doodle a picture of me strangling her. That bitch.

I walk outside the room, after making sure I have everything worth taking, including my cellphone that lay carelessly atop my unkempt bed. I make my way downstairs, hauling my case alongwith.

At each descending step, the tyres bump and clash. Thud. Thud. Thud. Four more times. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Finally, I reach the bottom step. Thud. I walk into the foyer and make my way out of the house through the gallery. Goodbye, home, sweet home.

Just as I am about to push the front door open, I hear the starting of an engine at a distance. Oh bullshit! I yank the attaché, not caring if any sudden, forceful action would somehow damage the old piece.

I run as fast as my wobbly, pigeon-legs could carry me, outside the rickety, old house. "Wait, wait!" I wail as I make my way near the automobile. "Wait!" I stand inches away from the passenger-door of the vehicle, panting the while.

I stand with my hands on my knees, my backside slightly convex, trying to make up for my lost store of oxygen. Just as the tidal volume of my lungs is retained, I look up from the eroded ground. The wind hits me, blowing my straight, honey-blonde hair. Great, just great: dirt in my eyes!

After rubbing my eyes for about two seconds and a half, I dare to open them, ignoring the possibility of an icky pink-eye. Through a moist layer of brine, I make out a dark silhouetted figure seated in the driver's area.

What doesn't catch my attention is that this person is wearing a seatbelt, or the presence of a constant and intolerable playback of the chattering of variable high-pitched feminine voices, or the thick eau de cologne that is empowering the mono- and diatomic air molecules diffusing inside my nostrils. NO! It isn't.

It's the stupid smirk plastered over the face hidden in the darkness of the hooded 4WD. I can easily make out the pearly whites - luminous in the shade. "Told ya, it'll work", says the deep, male voice of the mysterious masculine figure.

I have to admit, the mere depth of the way, the 'r' rolled off his tongue, has my heart threatening to speed. And it really doesn't help when I see his jaws working so effortlessly. Damn it! I catch the twinkle of his eyes, glistening with confidence. He knows he has my attention. He protrudes his head out of the darkness, towards me.

I am completely tongue-tied as I take in his features. Eureka! He. Is. Perfect.