𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏𝟎𝟏 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐈

• 31 •

I knew what was to come. Cringing, I moved the device away from my ear. "You got a company job and you're telling me just now?"

Lauren Alexie's shocked voice, regardless if it's through a phone or from just meters away, is high and loud enough to make ears bleed. I understand where she was coming from. We haven't talked in a while and my plan to visit's been delayed with all the shit that instead occupied me.

"Sorry," I muttered when I was certain that she had finished with her yelled lecture, "I've been busy."

Mom scoffed, "Too busy to call you mother," she sounded like she was joking, sarcastic, but I knew for sure that there was sincere dismay somewhere. That's Mom—always taking the humorous route.

"Well, where's this Contentment thing? Sounds like a sex club." I could tell she was cringing.

Shaking my head, I shifted in my orange beanbag that I've decided to name Garfield after a long cold shower. Showers make me think. "Mom,  it's Contented," I corrected, "it's a publishing house, very known too."

"Are you happy there?" the woman asked. In the background, I could hear her eight-year-old vacuum cleaner buzzing.

I didn't have to think about my answer. The job at Contented's better than any beginner's job that ever crossed my mind, especially when I do not have as many credentials as Adil or Ralph. "I am."

I heard a slump followed by the cleaning machine turning off. Mom had sat on the couch, "That's all that matters, Gigi." she said, the undying support like a scream despite her soft voice.

"Thanks," I muttered, mind then debating whether or not I should finally tell her about Keenan. Just that I'm seeing someone, at least, though not as specific as just seeing someone naked. Before I could talk again, however, she took the turn.

"Maybe I should try writing?" she sounded as interested as she was in her past hobbies, "I used to write poems in high school, you know." well, who didn't? Everyone's tried it at least once, whether by academic requirement or by personal interest.

I considered it. Mom spending her time doing something I also like sounds pleasing. We'll have a common engrossment, "You go do that."

I thought again about revealing my relational doabouts, finding a fitting word. Liking? Dating? Involved? It's now or never. "Hey, Mom," I began, tone cautious, "I-I'm involved with someone, but it's not like... it's not what you think."

The pause was lengthy and I wondered if there was a fault in the call, maybe a disturbance on the line. Before I could ask if she was still there, Lauren spoke, voice like a coo, "Who is she?"

Who is she? Who is-oh. "That's not what I meant," shaking my head, I countered her assumption, "You know what? It's nothing. Just know that you don't have to bug me about my love life anymore." and for fuck's sake, stop asking for babies.

Thankfully, I did not have to insist much before the topic shifted. Pastor Jonathan had passed away at the age of sixty-two. Is this the world's sign for me to give into libidinous desires? Well, I already have. To succumb further into the mind-blowing sex-filled hole to hell with Keenan Travino seems more like an inevitable consequence rather than a choice.

The arrangement fits, I keep telling myself. Not that I have a reason for conviction. The world has built this vivid fucking image of how two entangled people should look like. Anyone whose relationship beliefs lie upon the traditional notions would think that what we have going on is wrong. Odd, if you ask me, since no-strings-attached relationships become more and more recognized each passing day. They're accepted by now, are they not? Unless flowers, candlelight dinners, and chocolates have clung around your head to block off all other considerations. Nothing wrong with them, but there's nothing wrong about the lack of them either.