I guess it all started because I was just too damn nosy.
It was a Tuesday. I remember it because it was such a sunny day out, but I was stuck at home – sick with sniffles and congestion and just general grossness. My head was foggy and I hated the way I could feel my pulse rushing through it like some kind of train. Yeah. A train of pain.
Heh.
Anyways, I'd been watching some old comedy about voiceless spies who got into funny situations that would've sent someone to the grave in real life. One had a big handlebar mustache, and the other was a beanpole with oversized eyebrows, and he kept finding new and exciting ways to fall down the same flight of stairs. Hey, I never claimed to have high standards in entertainment, did I? No. So don't judge.
A doorbell rang just as Mr. Mustache stepped on a rake that came up and slapped in in retaliation. I snorted and lazily got to my feet. I reached for the remote and pressed the mute button. It didn't work, so I mashed it a few more times, hit the remote against my old, weathered coffee table, and made a mental note to buy new batteries soon. The doorbell sounded again. Impatient, are we?
When I finally got to the door, whoever was on the other side of it had taken to just jabbing at the little button with their finger. I groaned and pressed my left hand over my ear, the long sleeve of my father's old police sweatshirt helping to muffle it slightly by placing itself between my palm and the side of my head. That incessant sound was starting to make my head throb.
I yanked the door open and was sorely tempted to just scream in my unwelcome visitor's face, but I caught sight of perfectly polished blonde curls cascading over a rose pink trendy blouse, and internally pouted. My neighbor, Rosalie Cullen was at it again.
Rosalie Cullen was the blonde bombshell that lived in the next apartment over. She wasn't really a horrible neighbor – she would keep an eye on my apartment if I had to go out of town on business – but she just wasn't my type of person. She was model-knockout-gorgeous, and she knew it. Fashionable and the kind that used way too many beauty products, when in stark contrast I, a plain-Jane, didn't even have half a clue what half the stuff she used was for. I mean, on all accounts I should be the one prepping for a solid hour before going out – more ugly to cover up. But she, with the perfect 10 body and features that looked elegant even when she'd just woken up (I should know, I'd seen it myself when I'd stopped by to drop of mail that was mixed in with mine), was the one who spent that amount of time in front of her mirror. Her looks made her a little stuck-up and obnoxious, too. I knew she was smart – or at least, had a vague notion – but she never used it. She just acted so fake sometimes and –
Okay, enough of that. My bad habit of rambling – another reason why I was still single at the age of 28. A 'ripe old age' for women who were 'alone', if you ask my mother. Oh, I can just hear her now.
"You know, you're getting close to thirty now, and you know what they say – after thirty, it's much harder to land a decent man. Don't you want someone to take care of you? Or do you want to die alone?"
Looking back, that's probably where I got my intolerance of people who did that backhanded-compliment thing. Hence, the reason why I kept turning down Rosalie's proposals of a 'makeover-spa-day-girl's-night-in!'. Yep, she somehow managed to include the exclamation point.
She pushed right past me into my apartment in a blur of golden ringlets and the overly floral scent of perfume mixed with undertones of her various other beauty products. She spun on her spiky heel (that was going to put a hole in my carpet, damnit), and turned to face me with an excited gesture of her designer-purse-toting-hand and a quiet squeal.
One that cut off and morphed her face into a look of subtle disgust as she eyed my attire. I looked down at myself. Dressed in only an oversized, ratty sweatshirt and socks (no pants – hey, it's my house, I deserve to have free legs), unwashed hair up in a unintentionally messy bun, and no makeup covering my congested face, I painted a stark contrast to her polished appearance.
She tried to cover up her judging with a slightly strained return of her earlier excited smile and I grudgingly grimaced back. The sooner she got whatever it was off her full chest, the sooner I could go back to watching TV, laying on the couch, and eating cheese puffs.
Ah, yes, cheesy goodness awaits. Let's get this over with, shall we?
"Hi, Rosalie." I intoned, hoping that my tone sounded at least polite enough that she wouldn't leave in a huff. I had a meeting in Jersey City soon, and my philodendron, Dennis, would need someone to come over and water him while I was gone.
"So, I just learned the best thing ever!" she gushed, roaring right past returning my greeting. I went over to my small kitchen unit and got myself a mug of water while she followed behind, practically bouncing in excitement. I had a feeling I'd need something to use as an excuse to not respond to any question she might ask during the course of the conversation.
I took a large drink and looked at her over the rim with raised eyebrows, nonverbally encouraging her to go on.
"You know the Wong's old empty apartment? That one across the hall? Well, the new guy just moved in!" She eagerly waited for some sort of reaction. I took another drink of water.
She barreled on, not letting me stop her. "And guess what – he's about our age, and he is hot! He's exactly my type – tall, dark, and handsome – oh, who am I kidding, that's about every girl's type! I saw him moving in some boxes, and can I just say hunky? Seriously, the guy's got these gorgeous muscles, and he was wearing this dark blue t-shirt that just looked stunning on him, seriously! Plus – he's got a nice butt – that can't hurt, and this black curly hair that somehow manages to look carefree and neat enough that you know he isn't a complete slob at the same time! God, Bella, don't you know what this means?"
No, no I didn't. I took another long sip of water.
"It means it'll be super convenient for me, having a boyfriend across the hall! Like, it'll totally cut down on the hassle, and I only saw him from the back, but I just know he's good in bed, you know? Oh, I bet he's all hot when he's like, looming over you…." She trailed off, a dazed expression on her face.
Okay, then.
"Well, did he sound interested?" I added, sensing she needed just a little something to keep on going.
She looked genuinely puzzled for a second. "Huh? What – no, we didn't, like, talk or anything. I only saw him from the back and the side, but come on. I mean…look at me. I've never been turned down before, and it's not like I'm going to start now," she said flippantly, throwing her hair over her shoulder. "So it's not really a problem."
Wow. Full of yourself, much? I internally scoffed, but then sighed and realized she was probably right. I seriously doubted she had ever been turned down before, and even if he wasn't interested in her as a person, he'd probably at least throw her a bone. Girl was persistent. And hot. I mean, we all have that one fling that gets by mostly on looks and super hot sex, right?
It's not like it mattered all that much to me, anyway.
After all, people moved in and out of different places every day. It's not like this particular guy would make much of an impact on my life, right?
AN/: So, this is bad. I'm starting a multi-chapter fic with two more that I really should be paying more attention to. But this was requested, and I just can't say no, can I? Anyways, more to come, hope you like/d it.