It's Monday. I sit by the kitchen table and blow air bubbles through the straw to make my Pepsi flat. I stir occasionally to redistribute the melted ice water so that my drink is more even. I have my purple headphones on and I have seven Word documents opened. I count all the tabs I have opened in Chrome. Twenty-six. This is how I always create the perfect atmosphere for studying. Except I went on youtube to play one song, just one song and only once, I swear, I lied to myself and now it's three in the afternoon and I feel like I have missed the productive hour anyway. After years and years of research I have come to conclusion that my productive hour is 11 AM. Sadly I keep sleeping through it ever since I have moved to London. I would always be up by six before, to have a chance to see Dad before he left for work. Who'd have thought that without him here I would become so lazy so quickly? In theory I'm here to work on my postgraduate degree. In reality I spend my days with funny youtube videos and my nights with Pete and I'm not even sure if I'm all that interested in school anymore.
The front door opens and I jump. Then I realize what I'm doing and I laugh. I take my headphones off.
" 'ello mate," I greet Pete, trying to mock his cockney accent. Although it sounds a bit like I'm mocking my inability to do accents.
"Hi," he smiles at me as he takes his coat off and hangs it on the rack.
"What's funny?" He sits on the chair next to me, grabs some peanuts from the bowl next to my notebook and reads the screen. "Surely not ecotourism and sustainable development?"
I grin. "No, not that. It's just that when you came in I automatically pressed ALT and TAB to hide my browser window."
His nose crinkles. "I'm not your Dad, love."
"I know. Just a reflex." He leaves the table and opens the fridge. After few seconds of analyzing the content he takes a plate out.
"How old is this?" he asks, sniffing.
"Thursday I think," I rub my eyes. I'm a bit tired from staring at the computer screen for hours. I might have forgotten to blink. "We can order take out if you want."
"What? I thought I would have home cooked meal three times a day if I get a live-in girlfriend. I feel cheated." He stuffs himself with the cold four day old spaghetti.
"Charming," I think as I watch him. Now he's only missing a mustard stain on his shirt and big gut to rest his beer on when watching telly. He takes the plate back to the table. He rubs my chin and chuckles.
"I'm just kidding. I still love you, even if you can't cook. This is atrocious." He points at the plate. He had already eaten a half of it, yet he's complaining. I try to take it away from him, but he is too quick.
"No! I'm hungry!" He escapes and sits on the couch to eat in peace. He turns the TV on. The sports channel, of course. But he is not looking at the TV, he is looking at me.
"So what did you do today, love?" He asks and actually sounds really interested in what my answer will be.
"I watched youtube," I answer truthfully.
"Oh, you found any good documentaries on ecotourism?"
My poor naïve baby. He thinks I was doing some actual work.
"I watched Noel Fielding," I mutter. He has turned his back to me as something on TV caught his attention. He doesn't answer and I start to think he didn't hear me. Which is good. The reporter stops speaking and they switch to commercials. He gets up and takes the plate back to the kitchen. He puts it in the sink on top of dirty dishes from yesterday and runs hot water over it. Then he dries his hands with kitchen towel. Just as I think that the discussion is over and I can continue to do nothing he asks:
"What did you say you were watching?"
Damn. I cringe as I repeat my answer. He looks at me and he looks very concerned.
"Bouncy bouncy?" He asks in a serious tone. "That's how you spend your days?"
I'm wearing his Adidas hoodie. I put the hood over my head and hide my face. I'm invisible.
"Please, don't guilt trip me!"
He laughs quietly as walks over to me. "You poor creature."
He pats my back. "There, there," he says not unkindly. Then he changes into his workout clothes, puts his running shoes on and leaves me there. I take a nap.
He wakes me up some time later. He brought dinner, too. I love him.
"I love you," I say.
"I love you too, bug," he says matter-of-factly and hands me my thai shrimp and noodles. We eat on the couch. I gobble it down and finish my flat Pepsi. Then I lay down with my head in his lap. He caresses my hair.
"I don't think I want to do the school stuff anymore," I murmur.
He keeps stroking my head.
"Yeah, I figured."
"But then I'd had to find a job," I continue.
"That's what adults do."
His fingers play with the loose strands of my hair.
"I'm not sure if I can adult properly, yet." I voice my concern.
"Babe, I assure you, millions of people do it every day. If they can do it, you can do it. Don't a self-indulgent sloth. It doesn't become you."
"But I don't know what I want to be when I grow up."
"Just pick something."
"It's easy for you to say. You love to teach!" I turn around so I can see his face. He does not expect my sudden movement and stabs me in the eye.
"My sweet little princess," he snickers as he kisses my eye to take the pain away. It does not help. "How pampered are you?"
I'm not going to argue. I admit I have it pretty good. My Dad was a professional athlete and he did make very good money. Also he was feeling guilty that mom left us, so he was also very generous. But I have a suspicion that even he would stop funding me if I quit school.
"A lot," I acknowledge. Then it occurs to me and I sit up. "So you don't like teaching?"
He shrugs. "It pays the rent."
I think.
"So, if money were no object, and if you ignored all the comments from your friends and family, what would you like to do?"
He considers the question. Then he looks at me weirdly.
"What?" I ask.
"I have never said it out loud."
"You can tell me."
"I know it will not happen. And I didn't need to hear anyone say it."
"You're only twenty-seven. You can still be anything or anyone you want. Except for a violin player, I think, or an Olympic gymnast. But other than that, I'd say go for it."
He smirks. "Life is so easy for Nina Zedniks of the world, innit."
"Oh, come on. Low blow. How about we make a pact. Each of us will think really hard for five minutes and then write down a profession, something you really, really, really want to do for a living. And then we will help each other to make a real plan how to reach said profession. Because I love you and I want you to be happy. And I want to be happy to. This is no way to live," I gesture towards the filthy kitchen and the living room that was the opposite of cozy and nicely decorated. "This is how depressed people with no goals live. That's not us."
I wait for his response. At first he looks incredibly skeptical but after a moment he gets up and brings two pens and a sheet of paper.
"Fuck it. Let's do it." He tears the paper in half. He hands me the pen and one half of the paper. He writes down a word immediately. I think. And I think some more. I can hear my brain buzzing. Think of professions, think of professions. What do I like to do? Watch TV. Read books. Surf internet. Working in one of those would be great. Then it comes to my mind and I write down a word victoriously.
I hand him my paper and he hands me his. On one, two, three we read it. It's the same word.
"Okay, so we have a goal then," I say, trying to sound confident. I take the two pieces of paper and pin them on the corkboard over Pete's desk.
"A writer," reads on both.
We gaze at the board, feeling the significance of this moment. He turns to me and in his face I can see the question I wanted to ask.
"Now what?" we say in unison.