Patsy had always been a practical sort of person. Her world was one of logic and timing and order. And so, when she had a bad day, she would tell herself that it was all in the statistics. After all, there were three hundred and sixty five days in a year, and if you rated a day on a scale of one to six the year split almost perfectly into sectors. It was probable then, she told herself that she would have as many as one or two bad days a week.
Patsy was a very logical person, but still some days were off the scale and just went from bad to worse. She absolutely detested drama, life should be kept simple and easy. Some days however, she felt called for screaming and shouting and kicking up a fuss. She'd be damned if today hadn't been one of those days. On days like today, the only logical course of action was that deemed most illogical on a usual day.
Therefore, she allowed herself an internal scream as she began a practice she was very well acquainted with. She counted down from ten backwards in her head, the way parents often find themselves doing when faced with a child throwing a tantrum. It was a method Patsy had found very effective when dealing with something less than desirable.
She wasn't sure when her day had begun to go wrong, there was no precise moment to pinpoint or blame. One bad thing had blended with another. For one thing, the day had started terribly. Her three alarms had either not gone off or some how had failed to rouse her and so she had been late. That in itself was enough of a reason for her to of gotten out of the wrong side of the bed (tardiness was almost as much of a crime as a lack of hygiene in her books).
Then her roommate (whom she refused to admit she had just about the slightest crush on) had seemingly flirted with her, and in her dazed and half asleep state she had managed to spill orange juice down the front of her scrubs. Her car had broken down on her way to work, the radiator on it was broken and it had over heated. She had been reprimanded for being more than an hour late, even though she had phoned to explain and found the line busy.
As if that hadn't been bad enough, one patient had vomited over her new shows and another had tried to get on a hand-to-chest basis with her. Which was something she would never understand because scrubs could not be more unflattering if they had been trying. To make matters worse, her break had been cut in half and the cafeteria had been out of vegetarian options.
She'd been asked to stay on for an extra hour, which had turned into two and then into three. And then finally, finally after thirteen excruciating hours she had left. To find that the only bus on her route had been delayed by half an hour due to roadworks. To say that she had been having a day from hell, one that could try even her almost endless patience, would by this point be an understatement.
Her day had put her in the worst mood and logic could not dog her out of it. By the time she reached her apartment building, all she had wanted to do was collapse into bed and maybe moan at Delia about her day.
However, upon opening the front door, she had come across a flat in complete and utter disarray. The flat that she had cleaned on her day off, merely two days before. So before venturing any further, she found herself pressed against the front door, eyes closed and countdown on the go, anything to try and allay her ever darkening mood.
When she had her mood tightly in hand (she was, after all, a fully functioning member of society) she moved down the hall towards the living room. Before she had even reached the doorway, she heard the soft sounds of Delia's laugh. She refused to admit that it brightened her mood considerably. That is, until she moved around the slightly ajar door.
Sat next to Delia, far too close for comfort, is a rather unpleasant excuse for a man that happens to be round far too often for her liking. Patsy purposely makes herself forget his name every time he leaves, she doesn't want to know who he is. Especially not when he's trying to get in Delia's pants. Not that she's jealous or anything. The sight of him darkens Patsy's mood so quickly that it should be laughable. It's not, of course, because she's about five seconds away from either committing a murder or crying hysterically.
She must have a face like thunder, because as soon as Delia sees her, the laughter catch in her throat and dies there. The boy, as Patsy tends to think of him, glances at her and the smirk on his face seems to elicit a challenge. She tries to pretend that when she glares back at him, it gives her no satisfaction that he squirms uncomfortably.
Without speaking, she heads through to the kitchen, trying to blot out the barely there inch of space between the two of them. The more she tries to blot it out, the further imprinted on the back of her eye lids it becomes. Which is ridiculous of course, because it's none of her concern. Besides, they're not even touching. And she's not even jealous.
Trying to alleviate some of her awful mood, she bangs around in the kitchen whilst finding everything she needs to make toast. Not the most sophisticated of meals, but fuck it. All she wants to do is fall in to bed and forget that this day ever happened. So engrossed in making a racket, Patsy doesn't notice the man-boy excusing himself. She doesn't notice Delia entering the kitchen or Delia stopping her cupboard door from slamming shut. She doesn't notice anything at all, until Delia turns her around, knowing smirk plastered across her pretty face.
"What's up Pats?" Genuine concern lights up her eyes, although the smirk doesn't budge.
Patsy doesn't reply but rather concentrates on trying not to lighten completely under Delia's gaze. There's no way she should allow her to have such an enormous effect on her. She shouldn't be able to shift her whole day in less than five minutes. She shouldn't be able to and yet she has, and it's so illogical that it has Patsy confused beyond all else.
Delia's hand comes to rest on her arm. "Pats, what is it? Shane left, so I'm all yours. Tell me what's wrong, please."
Patsy's mood darkens again considerably at the mention of he who must not be named (she refuses to admit this is her childish way of referring to him in her head, after all it's not like any one else can hear it) and she just shakes her head. Turning back around when she hears her toaster pop up, she concentrates on making sure the butter is even and trying not to picture Delia's frown in her head. After all, it'll only make her feel guilty.
Finally, she turns back to face Delia, toast in hand. Taking a bite, she mumbles around it "Nothing's wrong, I've just had a ghastly day." Not exactly lady like, granted, but Patsy tries her best to ignore the lessons on etiquette she learnt at finishing school. She's not a young lady, or a socialite. Delia's still growing at her, arms crossed and foot tapping and Patsy tries her best not to think about how endearing it is as she munches on her toast, leaning against the kitchen counter.
"What, exactly, mad it quite so ghastly?" Patsy tries her best not to let her lips quirk up at Delia's pronunciation of ghastly in her Pembrokeshire accent.
"Everything Deels." Patsy also tries to ignore the fact that before she saw him, sat there as if he owned the place, she was ready to tell Delia every little detail of her day. It's very illogical and that's not something that she likes. She has to remind herself that of course it's not jealousy because that would be stupid. After all, her and Delia are just friends. Will always just be friends, because despite the casual flirting she's pretty sure Delia is very, very straight.
Delia rolls her eyes, sarcastic till the last. "Anything specific?" There's something in her voice that surprises Patsy, something knowing. So when Patsy just shakes her head, the amusement on Delia's face is very blatantly there. She turns to leave the kitchen, but when she gets to the door she turns. "You know Pats, there's nothing to be jealous about with Shane. Redheads have always been more my speed, even more so recently." She turns and leaves and seconds later Patsy hears her bedroom door close and she just knows that Delia will be grinning to herself over her brilliant closing one liner.