Page 1 of His Sound
1Crush || Tessa Violet
MOLLY
You know what they say:if you don’t have a weird roommate, youarethe weird roommate.
I tip the contents of my laundry basket out on my bed and reach to turn up the volume on my speakers. My ‘Putting Clothes Away’ playlist—which features a lot of Adam Levine—is currently blasting out of the surround system. Along with my vintage record player, the speaker set is probably the only thing of value in my tiny, stuffy, and currently sweltering bedroom.
“Try to tell you no, ‘cause I’m busy folding up this dress. Try to tell you stop, ‘cause my laundry is all still a mess.”
The towel starts slipping off my head as I nod along to the beat of my improvised lyrics. I straighten it back in place and glance at the rest of my outfit—a ribbed green tank top, faded pink I’m-Down-To-My-Last-Pair-And-Desperate granny panties, and a Korean cloth face mask complete with nostril holes that makes me look like Voldemort had drunk sex with a mannequin.
Yeah, no wayI’mthe weird roommate.
In my defense, it’s too hot to wear actual clothes right now. All the apartments in this part of Montreal are ancient and impossibly cramped. It’s like the concept of ventilation didn’t exist in the 1950s. I’m considering putting wheels on my floor fan so I can cart it from room to room and have it blowing directly on me at all times.
“So I cross my heart and I start to fold, try to finish this laundry before I’m old.”
I spin around with a stack of t-shirts in my arms, swaying my hips as I sashay towards my closet.
“Looks like somebody’s having a good time.”
The t-shirts hit the floor and I literally jump several inches off the ground when my roommate, Stéphanie, appears in my open doorway, grinning as she shouts over the deafening volume of the song. I stand there staring for a moment and then glance down at myself, my cheeks burning so hot I swear they’re going to singe the mask.
“Oh, god, Stéphanie, hi. Um...”
I lunge towards the volume knob and crank it down until Adam Levine is just background noise.
“Cute outfit, Molly. I like the mask.” Stéphanie chuckles, her usually subtle Québécois accent coming out in full force when she says my name:Moe-LEE.
I wring my hands together, willing myself to form a complete sentence as the embarrassment opens up under me like a pit. My brain is no use in helping me claw my way out; all it has to offer right now are ‘um’s and ‘ah’s.
“I, um, I thought, ah, you were going to be at work all day. I’m s—so sorry about the music. I’ll turn it off right now.”
Stéphanie waves her hand. “?a va, ?a va. Leave it. I’m heading out again soon, and besides, who doesn’t like a little Maroon 5?”
She heads into the kitchen.
“Ha, yeah, right,” I answer.
You idiot. She already left. You don’t have to say anything else.
“My mom made granola bars,” Stéphanie calls from out of sight. “I’m leaving them here on the counter if you want some.”
I hear her bustling around the cupboards for a few minutes before she heads into her room.
Turds. I’ve never offered her food. Now I’m the selfish roommate who just eats everyone else’s snacks. I should bake cookies. Should I bake cookies today?
I stare down at the Maroon 5 album art on my phone screen, my mind going a mile a minute as my chest heaves in time with my breaths. We’ve been living together for well over a year now, and I still make a complete fool of myself in front of Stephanie at least six times a week. I start every Monday off thinking, ‘This is it. This is the week I’ll be cool and normal and prove that I can handle spontaneous social interaction.’
Clearly, that week is not this week.
I flick through my dozens of playlists and settle on the one called ‘Breathe, Molly. It’s Okay.’ Yes, I have a dedicated playlist for recovering from awkward moments. I actually have three of them, for varying levels of awkward.
Bon Iver starts crooning about howling winds, and I fill my lungs with as much air as they’ll take before exhaling in a satisfying gush. Two more big breaths and I’m ready to pick up my fallen t-shirts and get the rest of my laundry put away.
I peel off my face mask and rub the remaining serum into my skin. There’s supposed to be some sort of snail goo in it that will revitalize my youthful glow. My skin tone does look a bit more even, but at twenty-one years old, I don’t think my youthful glow—if I even have one—can get all that much more youthful.
I unwind the towel and squeeze the remaining moisture out of my hair before dragging a brush through it. There’s almost no point. The dark brown curls are untameable on a normal day. In the still-muggy air of early September, they become vicious and feral beasts. I just let them do what they want.
