Livre: One Shots

[17] I don't like your little games

Idk how much you know video games but I think I captured it well and it's hopefully easy to follow along.

-/-

"You're lucky I love you, because your feet really smell."

Karlie gasped indignantly and leaned up from her end of the couch to thwack Taylor in the face with a nearby throw pillow.

"My feet are clean and perfect, thank you very much."

"Mmhmm."

It was a lazy Tuesday, and they'd spent much of the last hour lying on opposite ends of the couch with feet perched on the other's left shoulder, discussing what kind of people they thought their high school teachers were when they'd been in high school. Even though that was so long ago.

The house was very quiet, the low whir of the air conditioner only noticeable in these moments of contented silence. These were the kind of days that Karlie loved – nowhere to be, nothing to do – and that drove Taylor absolutely crazy sometimes.

The magazines were all the way over there on the coffee table, and TV (undoubtedly soap operas, this time of day) sounded even more boring than doing nothing. Taylor sighed and glanced aimlessly around the room. Today, something stood out against the dark, clean angles of the fireplace by the TV; something gray and plastic and seemingly very junky.

Taylor immediately perked up. "What's that?"

Karlie remained perfectly still. She knew she could wait Taylor out and actually fall asleep in a few minutes' time; she did it every night they spent together. Her girlfriend would keep talking before drifting off, herself, whether Karlie was really awake to hear it or not. And Karlie couldn't imagine anything in the immediate vicinity worth opening her eyes for.

Taylor crossed her arms. "I know you're awake. You're a terrible faker." She waited a moment, then tapped Karlie's cheek repeatedly with her toes to prove her point.

"Nnnnnnnn," Karlie moaned in frustration, turning away to bury herself between the couch cushions. Now she had Foot Face. Why am I dating this girl?

"Hey we're at your apartment this time, and now it's your duty as hostess to see to my every need."

"Go away," Karlie mumbled into the cushion.

More bopping of toes, this time on Karlie's ear.

"NNNNNRGH!" She turned over further and almost kicked Taylor in the face.

Karlie's whole head was under the cushion now. This was clearly not sustainable, but she'd be able to last at least a minute or two before suffocating. Taylor might lose interest before then. Find a buzzing fly by the window to watch instead. Maybe fall into an inexplicable coma. Or at least need to go pee.

Karlie breathed in the hot, stale air in her dark cave and prayed for reprieve.

"There's a box by the TV."

Another muffled groan of disinterest.

"I'm too comfortable to get up and see what it is for myself, so just tell me and I'll leave you alone, I promise."

Yeah, that was clearly a lie. You don't date Taylor Swift for eight months without learning a few things. Karlie remained still, as she had no idea how to extricate herself from this sweltering, polyester hell without invoking Twenty Questions (When You Could Be Sleeping). So, she opted for Pillow Death. It was clearly the more viable option. Plus, sleep included!

"You should see yourself right now," said Taylor. It was quite a sight, indeed: Karlie's body twisted, one foot up on the back of the couch, boob squished at an awkward angle, and seemingly headless. She was quite literally defining the term 'hot mess.'