DRAFT

Artist, Writer, and Cleaning

The Artist knew that the Writer is the leader of a crusade for cleanliness. That it is a firm rule to keep the apartment squeaky clean. Sure the two of them made up after the first few weeks of arguing here and there, but the Artist was still annoyed at how the Writer wanted everything clean. It wasn't her fault, according to her, that her profession involves a lot of mess.

Not to mention, cooking can be messy.

"Mmmmhh! I call this perfection!" The Artist grinned after cooking a batch of Turon—a popular fried snack made of thinly sliced bananas and jackfruit, dusted with brown sugar and wrapped in springroll wrapper. Humming happily, she placed the plateful of the said snack and grinned how the sweet scent made her mouth water and stomach to demand for it. "Yum, yum, yum, miryenda—Oh heya! Want some?" she wasn't surprise when she saw the writer in the kitchen area as well, offering her hot Turon. "Made sure they be above average length." She wagged her brows suggestively.

Arms crossed and a brow raised, the Writer ignored the innuendo and looked at the kitchen area then stared at the Artist. "Clean it," she said with her voice was cold as the tundra region and her face was expressionless that could put any poker player to shame.

The Artist frowned and then looked at the island counter and realized what the Writer meant. Brown sugar everywhere, bits of pieces of the springroll wrapper scattered on both the counter top and floor, banana peelings piled up at the side of the counter top, and oil smeared on the marbled table. She gently placed the plate full of Turons at the side and started cleaning while grumbling curses.

While the Artist was cleaning the island counter, the Writer decided to brew some dark roasted coffee that's enough for two cups.

It would go well with the Turon that the Artist made.

##

The Artist value her sleep so much that when when she felt someone poking her sides, she turned and pulled her duvet up to cover her whole body and ignored it.

Yet it still continued. Part of the duvet dipped and a firm pointy object prodded the Artist's body as if she was being examined like a lab rat. A few low growls escaped her lips as the poking didn't stop and with an annoyed grunt, she removed the comforter off her body and glared at the jabber.

"What?!" her voice was hoarse but came out as a whisper. She found herself gazing at dark colored eyes which belonged to her flatmate.

"Nice bedhair," said the Writer, pointing at how unruly the Artist's hair was—more than usual to be precise.

The Artist ran her fingers over her wild mane and messed her hair a bit more. "There, fixed," she said after her bedhair looked messier. "Not that I mind, but, why are you in my room?"

The Writer raised a can of air freshener and a broom, showing it to her sleepy flatmate. "Cleaning day." She shrugged and placed the cleaning materials on the floor. She then looked around the room and scrunched her nose upon seeing the mess on the floor, thankful that no paint were on the tiles. "You seriously need to tidy up your room. It looks like a storage room full of paints."

"Well, I am an artist, so it should somehow look like a storage room of paints." The Artist grinned at the Writer. She sat up, stretched her arms, and yawned loudly. "Good—" she looked at her bedside alarm clock that indicated it was 10:30am. "MorNoon." She lazily slid off her bed and began doing body stretches.

The Writer rolled her eyes and walked around the Artist's room; careful not to step on any paint or whatever unrecognizable mess there was on the floor. She maneuvered her way towards the worktable and her brows raised at what she saw. "Huh, that's a surprise."

Mid-way body stretching, the Artist stopped her daily exercise and looked at what surprised the Writer. "Whatcha looking at?" she inquired, approaching her bemused flatmate.

"Your worktable. I thought it would be... messier." The Writer pointed at the semi-organized table.

A sleek white laptop, several books, a sketch pad, and some other writing materials and references where neatly placed on the table. It was disarrayed at some point, but not to the extent that can be called as messy.

The Artist nodded, thinking it was not up to the Writer's standards, and went to arrange her table; stacking the books and putting the unused items such as power cables, pens, and sketchbook. "I know my room's not like yours, cleaning fairy, but I don't want my work table to resemble the back alley of a red district bar." She continued arranging her things on the table and smiled in approval after it was spotless. "I forgot to clean it last night after working on a project that one of my clients sent me."

"I see..." the Writer trailed off, wondering how the Artist kept her table clean while her room in shambles. It was like an old Egyptian temple wherein the room is the ancient tomb and the table is the beautifully carved sarcophagus.

With the table neat and organized, the Artist dusted her hands with a satisfied smirk. "Ah, so anyways, I know it's late and all, but do you want pancakes for brunch?" she asked, hoping that by bribing the Writer with food, the cleaning duty would be forgotten.

And it worked.

The Writer nodded. She does liked the pancakes made by the Artist. "As long as they aren't minipancakes... I know you're short and all, but that doesn't mean you should make small pancakes too."

"Yes, yes, it won't be minipancake— hey!"

####

The Artist tip-toed inside the Writer's room, carrying a tray of pepperoni pizza flavored Hot Pockets and a glass of water. It was almost midnight and the Writer didn't come out for lunch or dinner, saying she has a deadline to meet until she fell asleep.

The scent of pepperoni pizza mixed with cold air filled the whole room. Everything around the dimly-lit room looked so organized that it could pass as a window display for the perfect room. The Artist didn't bat an eyelid when she saw the Writer's room as squeaky clean.

But what did surprise her is the worktable of the writer.
On top of the wooden worktable lies several papers, pens, and a dingy-looking desktop computer. If the Artist would define the said table, she has only one word to describe it.

"Chaotic," the Artist whispered as if it was a forbidden word.

Shaking her head, the Artist placed the tray on the disorganized table and smiled at the sleeping Writer. "You are one very peculiar yet interesting woman."