Saturday. The day after the "Ping!". And, to my total and utter lack of surprise, the photo of "Things to Avoid at All Costs"—I mean, I do shower, just not every day. Groaning internally, I dragged my body from the safety of the chair. "Fine," I grumbled towards the door, a sound that barely seemed human.
Resigned to my fate, I grabbed a towel (whose cleanliness was questionable, but who cares about details?) and dragged myself to the bathroom. The prospect of the shower was doubly annoying: first, for the Herculean effort it required; second, because now my mom had ordered it, which wounded my non-existent recluse pride.
I closed the bathroom app remained silent. My brave "?" sent the night before floated in the digital ether, ignored. I stared at the phone screen for the tenth time since waking up (late, obviously). Nothing. Not even a 'seen'.
Maybe it really was just a bot, I tried to convince myself, staring at the stained door, the sound of the lock a small comfort. I turned on the shower, waiting for the water to heat up – a small luxury. The steam began to fog the mirror, creating a protective haze. I took off the crumpled hoodie and jeans that felt like they'd fused to my skin, feeling momentary relief. I ceiling of my room. A very specific bot that knows I exist and saw me yesterday. Yeah, super reassuring. Or maybe @StarryNight88 had regretted his cryptic boldness. Or had been abducted by aliens. Or just had a life and wasn't staring at their phone waiting for a reply to a lone question mark stepped under the hot spray. For an instant, I almost relaxed.
I began to soap myself methodically, running my hand over skinny arms, flat stomach, thin legs. The heat of the water, the lather… and my rotten mind, of course, seized the opportunity to go straight into the gutter. That. Probably the last option. Was the '?' too rude? Or too dumb? My mind spun in useless circles.
My useless contemplation was interrupted by knocks on the door. Not the light taps of someone afraid of waking the beast, but the firm knocks of someone who's already lost patience before even starting to speak. My embarrassing thought about the pizza guy returned. The whole "big ol' sausage" thing. What an idiotic phrase. But the seed of curiosity was already planted.
While washing down there, with a sort of clumsy care, the question arose, purely theoretical and absolutely ridiculous: How the hell would a 'big ol' sausage mother.
"Beatriz!" Her voice cut through the wood. "It's past ten! Come on, get up."
Ten? Already? Time in my own personal time zone was elastic and treacherous.
"You need to go to the bakery and buy bread for tomorrow," her motherly voice continued,' like that fit… here? I looked down at my own 'hoo-ha,' as if it were an advanced logistics problem. It looks so… compact. The exaggerated scenes from the videos I watched secretly seemed to defy any law of physics. Does it stretch? Or tear? Or do they use some kind now with that tone of weary resignation. "And for the love of God, take a shower before you go. You need it."
A shower. And going out. The two activities that topped my list of "Things to Avoid at All Costs" (I mean, I do shower, just not every day of industrial lubricant? If, by some miracle, this hoo-ha ever received something, bring on the cream, the lube! Imagine me having to buy it at the pharmacy? 'Miss, can I get a tube of penis-slider!' My ignorance was abyssal.
And speaking of things needing attention… I noticed the). Groaning internally, I dragged my body out of the safety of the chair. "Okay," I mumbled towards the door, a sound that barely seemed human.
Resigned to my fate, I grabbed a towel (whose cleanliness was questionable, but who cares about details?) and dragged myself to the bathroom. The prospect situation down there. Whoa, it's looking like the Amazon rainforest down here. Had it been… weeks? Months? Since I'd seen a razor blade. I remembered that stupid line from my fantasy: "A true warrior braves any jungle." I laughed to myself. What warrior would want to face *this of the shower was doubly annoying: first, for the Herculean effort it required; second, because now my mother had ordered it, which wounded my non-existent reclusive pride.
I closed the bathroom door, the sound of the lock a small comfort. I turned on the shower, waiting for the water* jungle? Needed a machete, not courage. Maybe I should start charging admission for the expedition.
In the midst of these useless ramblings and attempts to decipher the mysteries of anatomy and intimate landscaping, my hands might have lingered a bit longer, exploring… purely out of boredom, maybe? The sensation was… okay to heat up – a small luxury. The steam began to fog the mirror, creating a protective mist. I peeled off the wrinkled hoodie and the jeans that seemed fused to my skin, feeling momentary relief. I stepped under the hot spray. For an instant, I almost relaxed.
I began soaping myself methodically, running? Weird? Definitely not like the exaggerated moans in the videos. It was just… me, alone, in the shower, thinking about giant sausages and pubic rainforests. Pathetic.
"HEY, BEATRIZ!" A violent knock on the door shattered my bubble of embarrassing thoughts (and what little focus my hand over my skinny arms, my flat stomach, my thin legs. The heat of the water, the lather… and my rotten mind, of course, took the opportunity to go straight into the gutter. That embarrassing thought about the pizza delivery guy returned. The whole 'big ol' sausage' thing. What an I had). It was Leo. "ARE YOU ALIVE IN THERE OR DID YOU DROWN IN YOUR OWN FILTH?!"
I jumped, heart in my throat. My face burned as if it had been scrubbed with chili peppers. The trashy fantasy, the anatomical doubt, the private jungle, it all turned into a idiotic phrase. But the seed of curiosity was already planted.
While washing down there, with a sort of clumsy care, the question arose, purely theoretical and absolutely ridiculous: How the hell would a 'big ol' sausage' like that fit... here? I looked down at my own 'hoo-ha', paste of pure humiliation. "I'M COMING, DAMMIT!" I yelled back, my voice high-pitched with shame and anger.
"HURRY UP! ARE YOU SHITTING BRICKS OR WHAT?! OTHER PEOPLE NEED TO USE THIS SHITHOLE!" he bellowed, with his typical finesse as if it were an advanced logistics problem. It looks so... compact. The exaggerated scenes from the videos I watched secretly seemed to defy all laws of physics. Does it stretch? Or tear? Or do they use some kind of industrial lubricant? If one day by some miracle, this hoo-ha receives something, bring on the cream. "Mom! Bia's clogging the toilet again!"
I hastily turned off the shower, wrapping myself in the thin towel as if it were insufficient armor. I stomped out of the bathroom, shooting a death glare at Leo, who returned a mocking grin and made an exaggerated face like he smelled something bad. Great, the lubricant! Imagine me having to buy it at the pharmacy? 'Miss, give me a tube of penis-slider!' My ignorance was abyssal.
And speaking of things needing attention… I noticed the situation down there. Whoa, it's looking like the Amazon rainforest down here. Had it been... weeks.
Back in the (violated) sanctuary of my room, the feeling of cleanliness was a fleeting mirage. The bread mission still hung over me like a sentence. I rummaged through the drawer and, in a rare stroke of luck, found a clean hoodie. Gray, obviously. It was that or black? Months? Since I'd seen a razor blade? I remembered that stupid line from my fantasy: "A true warrior braves any jungle." I laughed to myself. What warrior would want to face this jungle here? Needed a machete, not courage. Maybe I should start charging admission for expeditions.
In the midst. I pulled on old jeans – why did I still own jeans? They were uncomfortable, a torture of thick cotton. I glanced in the mirror. The jeans only served to highlight how scrawny I was, my ass flatter than a board. Wonderful. A toothpick in baggy pants.
I heard the weather forecast of these useless ramblings and the attempt to decipher the mysteries of anatomy and intimate landscaping, my hands might have lingered a bit longer, exploring… out of sheer boredom, maybe? The sensation was… okay? Weird? Definitely not like the exaggerated moans in the videos. It was just… me, alone, in the shower, from the living room TV as I passed towards the door. Twenty-five degrees Celsius. Middle of summer. And there I was, wearing a hooded sweatshirt like I was about to climb the Himalayas.
Genius. I grabbed the money from the coffee table and, as a final act of defiance against common sense and society thinking about giant sausages and pubic rainforests. Pathetic.
"OI, BEATRIZ!" A violent bang on the door shattered my bubble of embarrassing thoughts (and what little concentration I had). It was Leo. "ARE YOU ALIVE IN THERE OR DID YOU DROWN IN YOUR OWN FILTH?!"
I, pulled the hood over my head before even turning the doorknob. Sweating like a roasted pig was preferable to meeting the judgmental gaze of another human being.
The street. Too bright. Too hot. Too busy for a Saturday morning. I took a deep breath of the heavy, humid air and began my epic journey jumped, heart in my throat. My face burned as if it had been rubbed with chili pepper. The trashy fantasy, the anatomical doubt, the private jungle, it all turned into a paste of pure humiliation. "I'M COMING, DAMMIT!" I yelled back, my voice shrill with shame and anger.
towards the bakery, head down, hood firmly in place, trying to merge with the concrete sidewalk. The paranoia about @StarryNight88 had been momentarily replaced by thermal and social agony, but it was still lurking in the back of my mind. Focus on the bread. Get the bread. Return to the lair. Quickly"HURRY UP! ARE YOU SHITTING BRICKS OR WHAT?! OTHER PEOPLE WANT TO USE THIS SHITHOLE!" he bellowed, with his typical finesse. "Mom! Bia's clogging the toilet again!"
I hastily turned off the shower, wrapping myself in the thin towel as if it were insufficient armor.. The heat under the hoodie was already almost unbearable. Idiot, idiot, idiot.
Almost at the corner by the bakery, I had to dodge someone coming out of the building next to mine, nearly bumping into him. I looked up for a millisecond, enough to register the figure. It was him.
I stomped out of the bathroom, shooting Leo a death glare, which he returned with a mocking smile and an exaggerated face like he smelled something bad. Great.
Back in the (violated) sanctuary of my room, the feeling of cleanliness was a fleeting mirage. The bread mission still hung over me like a sentenceThe neighbor. The one I'd passed a few times in the hallway, exchanging those minimal head nods. Steven, I think. He was dressed normally for the heat – t-shirt, shorts. The contrast with my Alaskan fugitive outfit was stark.
"Whoa, hey there," he said, tone perfectly casual.. I rummaged through the drawer and, in a rare stroke of luck, found a clean hoodie. Gray, obviously. It was that or black. I put on old jeans – why did I still own jeans? They were uncomfortable, a torture of thick cotton. I glanced in the mirror. The jeans only served
My primary instinct screamed FLEE! I kept walking, maybe even speeding up a bit, muttering something unintelligible that probably sounded like a gastric problem.
"Hey, Beatriz!"
I stopped abruptly. As if I'd hit an invisible wall. The name. My name. He knew my name to highlight how scrawny I was, my butt flatter than a board. Wonderful. A toothpick in baggy pants.
I heard the weather forecast from the living room TV as I passed towards the door. Twenty-five degrees Celsius. Midsummer. And there I was, wearing a hoodie as if I were going to climb. I turned my head minimally, just enough to peek out from under the brim of my furnace-hood. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second that felt like an eternity. He had a small, normal smile, maybe a little surprised that I'd stopped.
My entire face exploded in flames. I felt the blood rush, the sweat intensify under the thick fabric of the hood. Pure embarrassment. Total panic. Absolute confusion. How does he know my name? We've NEVER really talked! My mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. No sound came out. Maybe a pathetic squeak escaped, I' the Himalayas.
Genius. I grabbed the money from the living room table and, as a final act of defiance against common sense and society, pulled the hood over my head before even turning the doorknob. Sweating like a roasted pig was preferable to meeting the judgmental gaze of another human being.
Them not sure.
Steven seemed to notice my complete existential short-circuit. His smile faltered, giving way to a slightly confused expression, maybe even a little awkward at my extreme reaction. "Uh... okay," he said, the casualness now sounding a bit forced. "Just saying hi. See ya." street. Too bright. Too hot. Too busy for a Saturday morning. I took a deep breath of the heavy, humid air and began my epic journey towards the bakery, head down, hood firmly in place, trying to merge with the sidewalk concrete. The paranoia about @StarryNight88 had been momentarily replaced by thermal
He gave a small wave and continued on his way, maybe looking back once, probably adding "completely nuts" to the mental list of characteristics for the weird neighbor girl.
I stood there, planted on the hot sidewalk, the sun beating mercilessly on my ridiculous hoodie. My heart hammered against my ribs like it and social agony, but it was still there, lurking in the back of my mind. Focus on the bread. Get the bread. Go back to the cave. Quick. The heat under the hoodie was already almost unbearable. Idiot, idiot, idiot.
Almost at the bakery corner, I had to dodge someone coming wanted out. Beatriz. He said Beatriz. His voice, so normal seconds ago, now echoed in my head with a sinister weight. It mixed with the persistent memory of that notification on the photo app. @StarryNight88: Saw you today. The anonymous profile. The name he knew. The casual approach that out of the building next to mine, almost bumping into him. I lifted my eyes for a millisecond, enough to register the figure. It was him.
The neighbor. The one I'd passed a few times in the hallway, exchanging those minimal nods. Steven, I think. He was dressed normally for the heat – now seemed anything but casual.
No. It couldn't be. An anonymous internet stalker was one thing. But... him. The guy who lived next door.
Shit. The thought hit me like lightning on a sunny day, cold despite the suffocating heat. The humiliation of the interrupted shower, Leo t-shirt, shorts. The contrast with my Alaskan-fugitive outfit was stark.
"Whoa, hey there," he said, with a perfectly casual tone.
My primal instinct screamed RUN! I kept walking, maybe even speeding up a little, mumbling something unintelligible that probably sounded like a gastric's words, the discomfort of the hoodie, all vanished before that icy, horrible realization.
Steven. The neighbor. He said my name. How did he...? The message. That username... Starry Night... Shit. It was him. The whole time? Shit, shit, SHIT.