Inclination

Meetings, Mixtapes, Mini Golf

The following Sunday you are in the kitchen pushing scrambled eggs around with your fork on an equally canary-colored plate, your chin resting in your lax palm and your pencil tapping quietly against the newspaper before you as you mull over the crossword puzzle in the back. You gasp when a voice startles you from the doorway, "bitch, why are you all dressed up? Going to church to repent?"

You look down at your outfit: a simple white baby doll Hanes undershirt covered by a black spaghetti strapped slip dress, ankle length black doc martens covering your white socks which peek from the tops. You look back at him and shrug, "I'm actually  going to hang out with a friend soon."

Your roommate quirks an eyebrow and opens the refrigerator, pulling out a carton of orange juice and unfolding the spout to swallow a long swig before quipping sarcastically, "you have friends? Who might they be?"

You roll your eyes and shovel another forkful of eggs into your mouth before returning your sight to the newspaper in front of you and mumbling, "maybe Harry..." You wait quietly for your roommate's surely sour response, never having mentioned your blossoming friendship with Harry, considering it occurred in the wake of their failing romance.

He gasps loudly and you keep your sheepish gaze on the crossword puzzle, feigning interest in a clue that will lead you to a hopeless victory. He approaches you and hooks his index finger under your chin before lifting your gaze to his face, "excuse me? My Harry? As in... my ex Harry?"

You pinch the bridge of your nose and he scoffs at your insensitive reaction, "oh please, he's not your ex boyfriend. You guys hooked up and then you got drunk and scared him off with your insecurities."

He slams his carton of orange juice on the counter, "you're really going to fucking hang out with Harry? Oh my god, that's so awkward." He raises his arm into the air with a questioning bend of his elbow, "how would you feel if I suddenly befriended your exes?"

You shrug and pick up his container of juice to pull a passive sip from the nozzle before swallowing thickly, "okay, relax. He's not your ex and it doesn't have to be awkward." You stand up to carry your plate to the sink and lower it gently against the stainless steel, "and I'd feel sorry for you if you did that, because all of my old hook ups are losers."

Your roommate considers this for a moment before he takes another pull from his carton of orange juice, narrowing his eyes at you playfully as he tucks the flap closed and lowers it to the counter, "honey, you know he's fully, one hundred percent, flaming homosexual... right? I don't wanna see you getting hurt."

You roll your eyes as you glide the soap-saturated sponge against the plate and shake your head, the water from the tap rinsing away all the bubbles before you place it on the drying rack. You turn to him with a towel between your fingers, wiping away any excess moisture and dropping the material back onto the counter before crossing your arms over your chest, "I'm sorry it didn't work out between you two, but I'm not letting that little cinnamon stick go to waste. And duh, I know he's gay. We are just friends. Want me to tell him you said hello?"

He holds his middle finger up at you with a crass countenance as you curtesy and grab your purse, sticking your tongue out at him as you flounce from the kitchen and out of the apartment without so much as a goodbye or acknowledgement of his jealous gesture.

You spot Harry's Porsche in the driveway before you notice his address, pulling your frowzy, cornsilk 1985 Volkswagen Rabbit to the curb and stepping out to scan the facade of his home. Quaint, lucid and manageable; brick and pewter siding, a small garden with curated wild foliage and even though you don't know him well, you can tell that his home is very Harry.

His front door flies open as you're walking up the cobblestone pathway to his front porch; he stands in the doorway with his hands extended low at his sides, palms facing outward and an open-mouthed grin stretched from ear-to-ear. You laugh at his lightly sardonic nature before stopping in your path and recreating his facial expression and pose. He perches one hand on his hip and uses the other to signal your approach towards him, "aw, get over here then!"