When the Paint goes Dry

Chapter Two

I was ready.

I took the potatoes out of the oven and set them on the table looking at the clock. It was an hour later then when my ‘fiancée’ was meant to arrive. He was late and I was expecting that.

I hope he enjoyed the address I gave my parents. There was no way I was going to tell them where I was living, they would crucify me knowing what type of area I lived to I told them Hamptons, twenty kilometres away from me by the beach. Perfect.

I took of my oven mits carefully smiling as my cunning plan. 

I stirred the salsa together pouring myself another glass of wine, one too many realising I felt faint headed and hot. Who was I kidding, I was always hot. I was born this way baby.

I grabbed a spoon leaning against the counter and dipped it into the tray and poked the potato before placing it in my mouth, dinner for one, why waste dishes and take out a plate when you can eat right out of the tray?

“And iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiahahahaiiiiiiii will alwayyyyyyyyys loooouve yoooooooouuuuuuu,” hours hand gone by and I had been sitting here singing to the music from the radio.

“Where are all the new songs?” I asked squinting at the light. Why was it moving? The knock on the door just before midnight made me curious. Who on earth was that? Maybe someone wanted to buy a painting of mine. I giggled getting up trying not to trip over the water glass on the ground and managed not to step on the paint either and made it to the door.

Was my door always this horrid peach colour? Maybe I could re-paint it.

But then the landlord would make a fuss, he thought this trash can was the most precious baby. I snorted grabbing the door for support.

“Who am I?” I asked trying to look out of the keyhole. Was  my keyhole always non existent?

There was no reply. Fine. I opened the door leaning against it and squinted up at the tall shadow.

“Yes?”

Blue eyes stared down at me and I stared back, “Can I help you?” I asked clearing my throat trying not to swing on my feet.

“Avilia?”

I winced at the sound of my full name coming from someone other than family.

“That would be I, can help you?”

Maybe that wasn’t my best structured sentence. He gave me a curt nod before turning around and walking off towards the stairs.

Wait, did you want to party with me? Why doesn’t anyone want to party with me? I frowned turning around tripping over the jug that was there to catch the leaking water from the room and fell face first onto the rug. At least the rug was comfortable.

“Do you want to party with me?” I asked running my fingers through the orange fur. I smiled; of course it wanted to party with me, and how lovely I smelled. I took a huge sniff and then regretted it, no, it needed a wash.

When my phone went off at eight in the morning I regretted last night, did I have to get drunk, and not just normal drunk but drunk by myself like the loser I was. I grunted feeling a sharp pain in my right shoulder shit why was I on the ground?

I sat up wincing and then realised the foul taste in my mouth.

Oh god why Ava, why were you so stupid?

Maybe it’s because I did an art degree and graduated already. I scoffed at the stupid joke, which really wasn’t a joke and got up tugging down my shirt and then stopped looking down at the three sizes too small shirt that stopped way before my bellybutton.