Don't Look Down

two: don't you dare

My hangover the next morning is legendary. Seriously, I think Bryce Harper's in there swinging a baseball bat against my cranium. While I slept in my own bed courtesy of my polite mugger, the remaining items in my purse as well as my dignity are still gone. That hurts worse than the hangover.

I spend the first few hours of my morning nursing my head like it's attached to a newborn baby. Soft pillows and support are key, as well as closed blinds. It's an appropriate setting to stew in the dark realities of yesterday. Not only did I get demoted, I also drank myself into a stupor. And to top it off, I'd been robbed. Yesterday officially earned the 'Worst Day Of My Adult Life' sticker.

Part of me wants to cry. A larger part of me wants to wallow. So after canceling all my credit cards and ordering a new cell, the latter is what I do until about mid-afternoon. Then I drag my sorry, still aching ass into the shower and wash away the events of the previous day.

When I emerge, clean and dressed, I'm already more positive about the state of my life. In the grand scheme of things, I'd only lost a few bills in my wallet, a cheapish purse and cell, and replaceable credit cards. At least I still have a job in our dwindling economy, a best friend that is hopefully alive, and a great apartment that I'll be able to afford once I get a roommate.

Oh shit. My cell phone. How am I supposed to get a roommate without being able to answer calls?

Pacing around my living room, it dawns on me I have a few days left to myself. Sure, money is going to be an issue, but as I take in the immaculate hardwood floors, flawlessly placed pastel furniture, and alphabetized pieces of literature running the shelves along my exposed brick wall, I realize maybe that's okay. I like my stuff where it is. I like it untouched by anyone other than me. And I absolutely like it clean. A roommate is going to obliterate all of that. Is it really a big deal if I delay my awful fate another week? Probably not.

Just as I've settled in the comfort of that fact, there's a knock at my door. Bracing myself for Marsha's fury over not texting her, I run to the door and throw it open.

It's not Marsha.

It's a hairy man, thirty-five, I'd guess, dressed in a skin tight Hello Kitty t-shirt that's cut off just above his belly button.

"Are you Ellie West?"

I nod, unable to form coherent words as my eyes remain focused on this man's exposed mid-section.

"I'm here about your roommate request."

"Oh," is what I finally say before begrudgingly conducting a quick interview in my hallway. It's all I need to decide this guy is one hundred percent not my future resident and dismiss him with a polite, "Thank you for coming."

As I shut the door, I throw my still-sensitive head into my hands and groan. Apparently, in our drunken state, Marsha and I had thought it smart to list my actual address in my post. Morons, the both of us. I thought the robbing was bad. Now, not only do I have to find a roomie, I also have to worry about strangers coming to my house and hacking me into tiny bits.

If only I had my cell phone to call Marsha to ream her out about letting me make stupid mistakes when I've consumed too much alcohol or to ask her for much needed back up. Sadly, I don't, which leaves me alone to deal with potential tenants showing up at my door over the next few hours.

I interview a guy who refuses to turn off the music blaring from his cell phone while I ask him questions, which infuriates me more considering I don't have one at the moment. There's another with gold teeth, a lady who doesn't speak a lick of English, and a girl who only communicates via notepad since she's abstaining from speaking for an entire year. My last interviewee has potential. She's normal, answers my questions using her mouth, and reminds me so much of Marsha I'm seconds away from welcoming her in. Then she asks if I'm alright with her working from home. She's a prostitute.

After my last goodbye, I'm hopeless. All my earlier positivity has faded, leaving me questioning the sanity of New York's residents. Is it possible Marsha and I are the only sane ones left? Or am I too picky? I'm honestly not sure. But I sure as hell refuse to live with someone I don't even feel comfortable inviting into the living room.

One thing is certain. If the remaining people are anything like those I've interviewed so far, I'm going to have to settle. Or fail to make rent and live on the street. Both options seem horrendous.

I head to the kitchen to make dinner and after searching through my cabinets, I pull out a box of Kraft Mac 'N Cheese. Comfort food is the only thing that can save me from the wreckage of my life. But just as I begin filling a pot with water, the doorbell rings again.

Releasing a sigh and kicking myself in the ass for the umpteenth time today, I set the pot on the counter and make my way to the door, opening it to the last person I ever expected on my doorstep.

"You lookin' for a roommate?" He's wearing a shit-eating grin on his kissable lips and the dangerous combination of his dark features, strong angles, and sculpted cheekbones do nothing to sway me from the familiarity of his eyes.

They're not as hard to gage in the light of day. They're brown. And they're about to be gouged from their sockets.

My face twists into something sinister. "You."