Sisi / Season 1

13⁒

                 

so high - doja cat

The prescription isn't strong enough. If I had known how easy it is to get addicted to someone...

I know I've seen him before. My head retrieves past glances.

I stand at my door and push in the key, rather violently. The quiet air and lack of video game victory chants tells me Étienne isn't in yet. My ears feel like they are on fire.

I shake my shoes off my feet and inspect the style of the terracotta coloured floor. It wants me to spill myself over it.

I walk over to the futon. Étienne's lingering masculine smell vaporizes in my face. I grab my MacBook. I sit in his dust and pull up the screen.

My fingers instinctively type in my passcode. I adjust my eyes to the brightness of the screen that I refuse to turn down. I nearly see through it. I go on YouTube to appease my brain and search for something I can laugh at.

My hand then reaches down my pocket and fishes out the drawing. If I see him again, I should say something. I think. Maybe not. Yes, he's talented, but not worth my words. Many people sketch. Not many people hear me speak.

I drop the thick paper by my side and decide to let him drop out my head as well.

My patience runs thin with the night hour.

Distracted, I open word processor and start typing. What's his name? Blank. I'll call him Blank. What's he doing now? Right now, at this minute? He's walking down the boulevard. Going where? He's going to meet the girl he dreams of.

There's a knock on the door. I think I'm going to need to get Étienne his own key. And charge him rent.

I open the door after finishing my sentence.

"What took you so long?" Étienne asks, half scolds.

"What took you so long?" I ask him now.

He walks in anyway.

"Practice," he sort of answers.

I watch him drop his fluorescent adidas bag on the floor. His height is overbearing, even when he tiredly slouches.

"Must I give you the spear key, then?" I fold my arms and playfully follow behind him.

When he asked if he could 'crash' at my place, I wasn't really processing that he's a boy and I'm a girl. I just sort of said okay. Nor did I think that time could prolong. Nor did I contemplate on the physics of the opposite sex within the same space.

"That would be great," he grins.

He goes forward in sitting where I sat. He sprawls his arm open and rests his head back. His French Canadian face needs grooming. Uneven brown sprout on his chin and cheeks. His brown hair flying back with the invisible wind. I've never been able to forget it all. The small futon doesn't even fit him.

I glide onto the tin armrest. I'm bored. There's a man to my disposal.

I get him off guard when my fingers twirl in his hair, down his sideburns.

"You'll have to earn it," I seduce in his ear.

He blinks a few times and raises his brows. He might want to laugh, but the scalp massage he gets stops him.

"W-what?" he barely says.

I pull away and squirt a laugh.

"Do my laundry," I say and walk to the other side of the futon.

I grab back my mac and get back to my fiction.

By the time I look at him again, his face is scarred with red. I might have caused some damage. He then disappears in the bathroom and runs the shower.

·•●⦁·

It's past bedtime. I have on my headphones and swaying to the mellow electric beats. The image of Blank fades from my head. I help myself to a glass of cheap wine.

I excuse myself, because I don't have to wake up early the next day.

I stuff my mouth with a sour sweetie.

My back leans up against the wall. I can feel my heartbeat vibrate through me.

Suddenly, Étienne walks to my bed corner. I stop moving and stare from above my lids. A violin goes off in my head. He swaggers his bare shoulders. I push out my lips. He likes not wearing a shirt.

"May I help you?" I ask, before he lies next to me.

He places his hands behind his head.

"My legs are sore. I'll need a bed," he closes.

I roll my eyes and pull my headphones off my head.

"Then go get yourself a bed," I say.

"I did," he dilly-dallies on the bed.

"I'm not 'bout it," I tell him. My feet execute a shove his way. "Go away."

His hand finds its way behind my knee, lifting. I reprimand his touch.

"Come on," he sighs.

"The Charter of Human Rights doesn't say you can sleep in my bed," I notify.

He laughs silently, his tongue sticking out. His wet hair has already dampened my pillow.

"What happened to helping those in need? You have to. We're friends," Étienne maintains.

He seems too relaxed.

So I sit on top of him.

"Are we?" I playfully ask in a Hollywood voice.

I can feel that he's not relaxed anymore. He sits up as fast as a bullet.

All jokes aside, the proximity he's shorten alarms all the saints in heaven. He looks at me straight with big fox like eyes. It's hard to deny his hands. They hold me round like I'm his basketball. 

"Good question," he adds.

My humour is short lived. I spread my hand over his face. I feel his hot breath in my palm. His lashes tickle my sense of touch. I push him back. I take the opportunity to hop off. I itch the damage in my head. I throw my blanket over my shoulder.

"Too bad it won't be answered tonight," I throw in the air, walking towards the futon.

I'm not sure what I was getting at. It's the wine. It's too red.

·•●⦁·