The Barista who didn't like Coffee

Priscilla the wife

improvisation: noun

/im-preh-v:ɪ-zay-shun/'

the act of improvising,i.e. to create or perform spontaneously without preparation

eg: Her work is largely based on forgetfulness and improvisation.

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I stretched across my bed as the warm sunlight seeped through my thin, poorly drawn curtains and illuminated my dark bedroom. That was probably one of the most well-deserved nights of non-interrupted sleep I'd ever had. Scratching a particularly annoying itch at the base of my neck, I shuffled to the bathroom. Yawning at my reflection, I gripped the edges of my sink and stared at the sleepy face in front of me. What a day. Last night, when Abby and Brenda returned at around ten thirty, much later than they'd promised might I add, they were presented with a sight I found rather difficult to explain.

After the pizza'd arrived, Cindy had taken about three slices to her room, leaving Aiden, Paulo and me with one and a half pizzas to ourselves. If there's anything I'd learned form last night it was that the three of us have one thing in common- we do not like sharing food. So when we had nine slices between the two of us (and a small dog with a not-so-small appetite) it was like the Hunger Games-domestic version. I got through about three and a half slices when I felt myself starting to feel drowsy. But I ploughed on, and so did Aiden, attacking each pineapple chunk and string of cheese like his life depended on it.

We kept this going for a solid forty minutes, and then I think we switched the tv on and dropped off one by one. Abby came home to two adults sprawled on their couch, drooling over the armrest.

"Oi! What's going on 'ere?" Abby yelled in her thick Yorkshire accent, waking me up with a jolt. I snorted a bunch of long blond hair into my nose and smacked the head it belonged too. Aiden's arms shot out and he fell off the edge of the couch. Abby loomed over me with her hands on her hips. "Wha' are yeh doin'?" she pointed to Aiden, "An' who's this blondie?" He raised his head off the ground and looked at her groggily. It took me about five seconds to clear my foggy to remember what I was doing. "Uh," I said, my voice thick with sleep, "That's my neighbor, Aiden. Brenda knows he's here," I winced and rubbed my eyes, "Abby, what's the time?"

Abby looked at her wrist and said, "It's five pas' ten." A loud grunt sounded from the floor near the couch. Abby and I peered over the edge to look at Aiden. "Hey where's the bathroom? I had a shitload of pizza," he said, looking at us and blinking rapidly. Abby wrinkled her nose and pointed him in the right direction. He nodded her a thanks and scrambled to his feet.

"Where's Cindy?" Abby asked after Aiden had left the room. "She's in her room. She had some pizza and I made her write her essay," I said, getting up myself. Abby started towards her room, and I followed suit, stepping over Paulo, who was lying on the floor on his back with his four stubby paws in the air.

Cindy was sitting on her bed, a plate of pizza crusts beside her, laptop on her lap. She saw us and wide grin broke out across her face. I'd seen that look before, and it meant she'd done something. 'what did you do?' I signed, looking suspicious. She just shrugged at the two of us, and signed, 'Nothing. It's just that you and Aiden helped me get 300 notes on my Nico Diangelo and Will Solace fanfic.'

"What?" Abby and I said simultaneously, her confused and me stunned. Cindy simply turned her laptop screen to face us, and right in the center there was a picture of me and Aiden asleep on the couch, his head resting on me. 'You two looked so cute curled up and I couldn't help it.'