Ice To Meet You

Mia makes pour decisions

I know I shouldn't text him, but I want to talk to him. He is exciting and funny and oh so gorgeous. Those thick locks of hair flirting with his eyes are my kryptonite...

"It's the private jet and shirtless pictures," the bitch interrupts my musing.

"Don't listen to her Mia; she's just salty. Don't text him, he upset you last time, and we deserve better," the inner voice tells her.

"Text him, Mia, be bold. You can't spend the rest of your lousy life alone drinking champagne while the rest of the world parties away," the bitch tells her.

Holy fuck, I blink hard at the conversation going on in my head. The more I drink, the more mellow and soft inner voice will get, and I just know that the bitch will take over. Imagine drunk Mia with the bitch. I can already taste the recipe for disaster. Any rational person would keep the bottle down but not me and definitely not today.

The bitch gives a wink, and I smirk at her, chugging some more bubbly. What do I have to lose? Why was he such a dick to me anyway the last time we met?

"He has a girlfriend..." inner voice whimpers, but I hear her. Her voice echoes in my head and I promise her that I will not flirt with or hit on Mr. Scrumptious. I just want some attention with a side of thoughtfulness.

And some fries. I am craving some sizzling crispy fresh-cut potato fries. Why does my brain connect Kent to fries? It's bizarre how strangely the mind works at times.

"Mia, you can't eat fries. Grab an orange instead," the bitch says, and I don't argue. Both inner voice and bitch want to make sure I am healthy, and that's almost touching. I would appreciate it more if I wasn't starving. I learned in 11th grade that oranges have fewer calories than apples and more fiber, so I pretend that I don't like apples anymore.

I hope one of these days the smell of freshly baked apple pie leaves my head. Isn't the crunch of the golden crust on top of the pie delectable?

Whenever I am famished, and it is past dinner, I just drink some peppermint or chamomile tea. I take a mouthful from the bottle and guzzle it down. I take out my phone and text William.

"Hi,"

I wonder what multi-millionaires do on Sundays. He doesn't respond in five minutes, and I am starting to feel stupid. Why did I have to text him?

I scout for my green towel and my pajamas. I feel filthy, and the warm water will hopefully calm my nerves that are starting to go jumpy. Why won't he reply to me?

Is it weird that I wish he liked me even though I know there is no chance that he would? I tie my hair up in a bun and hop in the shower. I wish I wasn't letting a man move me so much; I never wanted to be one of those girls.

The warm water of the shower makes me want to cry. I don't like knowing that Kent has a girlfriend. I don't like that Hannah won't spend the first day of moving in with me. I wish I weren't all alone right now. I don't like knowing that I have been working like a dog all day by myself. I hate knowing that college is over. I don't want to grow up; I am not ready to be an adult. I inhale all my emotions and realize that I forgot to bring body wash with me. I need to find the closest Walmart and get some basics for the house.

We don't even have a shower curtain, and there is water everywhere on the floor, but I really give zero fucks. I hope Hannah slips on the water. I carefully walk out of the shower and recheck my phone.

No reply from Kent. Matt wants to know what's up but I don't feel like talking to him right now. He is too rosy glassed and happy chappy for me right now. I am feeling Amy Winehouse-ish.