Suicide Hotline

2

"Just give me a month of extension, will you?!" I have raised my voice, and it had captured a lot of tenants' interest. Above my shoulders, settled a blanket that serves as a cloak, 'damn, I wish I have an invisible cloak like Harry does.'

"No," she simply replied. "I have given you a lot of extentions. Enough!" I felt dizzy for a moment, because I haven't had my breakfast yet; or maybe it was because her breath stinks like a cat's shit.

As her workers' meddle with my stuffs, a mailman approached my door. Though it was visibly open, he's about to slip an envelope inside the slit of my door. "Hey, hey, hey," I grabbed his shoulder. He turned his back to me, and his face fell into shock; A mixture of bewilderment and surprise.

"Miss Lin?" I nodded. For a moment, I felt kinda bit offended. Isn't it obvious that I don't wanna be called a Miss? I don't bind my chest or cut my hair short for nothing. I have let it slipped for the sake of pointless argument. His pupils dilated naturally, as his psyche processed that my door was patently half-open. "Sorry, I... I actually haven't had my breakfast yet. A bit shallow atm hehe." His diction screams homosexuality!

"Same," I replied shortly. "Wanna eat?" I don't know what came up to me, but I horribly want someone's company; I'm so tired of being alone.

He gazed at me. And there, I realize that he wasn't 'a boy'. He's a she! So I've been using the wrong pronoun all this time?! She glances at her wristwatch, and her face fell a bit hesitant. I am actually hoping she'd say yes, but it's no pressure.

"Sure," she smiled. It has lifted a ton of anxieties behind my back. "Got 30 minutes in hand." Well, I guess that's enough.

We both walk our way down the hall. There's a convenience store near the apartment's vicinity; It's called 7-Eleven — A place where cheap food tastes quite edible.

"I am Marco," I manage to work myself inside the breeze, and break the congenial silence between us.

"K," she peered right at me, and I found myself so dumb. How could I assume this human being as a man? With her defined jawline and almond-charming eyes? Not to mention her so-flat-chest that I envy so much, what binder does she use anyway?

"Pretty short for someone as tall like you."

"Lu Keran, but just call me K." For someone so long-legged, K was too short. "Got a little party up there?"

"Yeah," I doubted if I could tell her. It would be a shame to have the word — broke — as my reminder. But what's safer than telling a stranger that's built like a matchstick? Although her long legs could kick plumpy arses like mine. Nonetheless, I would still tell her. "I'm being vacated." I could see the usual lights; 7-Eleven has. Before we reached its vicinity, I added something factual that would lighten her up – without my further explanation. "Forcefully."

K's face dropped into confusion. I might be wrong, but again. it's no pressure. She's the kind of person that doesn't seem harmful at all; Not a hint of devilish-pesonality could be seen on her mere silhouette of life.

Although I am expecting follow-up questions from her — It never came.

"What do you want to eat?" I asked.

"Anything," she smiles, as she wandered her sight around the rectangular hanging steel board that contains the menu.

"If I give you a rotten cheese, would you eat it?"

"Oh heck no," K's disgusted face flashes over me, and it somehow reminds me of Gia.

"Then don't tell me that you want anything," I snorted out a small laugh, and I just dearly hope that she didn't find it offensive.

She chuckled. "Point taken," K's pique of interest landed on a bowl of chicken and rice, while I'm into sandwiches. "A bowl of rice and a teriyaki chicken."

"Bacon sandwich," I barged in.

Before I could even chase a bill inside my pocket. K had already paid our meal, and it felt humiliating. I am not fond of girls paying for my food, although I am a girl myself.

"I'll pay for us." I offered, reaching out my hand with a bill in it.

"Let me," she closes my fist. "You have other things to pay Marco."

My mouth almost hanged itself, when I registered what K meant.

"But you have my hand now," she winked. "I don't think you remember me, as much as I remember you."

K's pupils are far more obsidian than mine. It's a depth I'd willingly drown myself into; I tilted my head. Why would I remember someone I am not akin, colleague, or in acquaint? "Who are you?"