Screwmates(2)

Fantasy? No, that made it sound tawdry. My expectation, that was better. Because who lived with someone for nearly a year and never Netflix-ed and chilled?

Wait.

I meant actually watched Netflix while chilling. I did. I swear. Because, literally, who lives with someone for nearly a year and never has a boring couch night?

So it was weird, maybe, but it was what we did and it was no big deal and actually I hadn’t even thought about our embarrassing first encounter in months. Really.

Except maybe occasionally when I had date night with my vibrator.

But it wasn’t like he ever knew that’s what I thought about.





One





“Madison? Hey. Madison.”

I sat up with a jolt, my sketchbook falling to the floor.

“My boobs! Did I pass?” I was having That Dream. The one where I show up at school a frazzled mess with pencils sticking out of the messy brown bun on top of my head, my glasses on crooked, and ink stains all over my hands and arms that whisper rude things at passers-by who think it’s me. The one where the self-portrait I spent all week working on has somehow morphed into a picture of the dog I had when I was in elementary school only with my mom’s head on top, and I’m now entirely certain I’m going to get an F.

And that Mom will not be pleased. Did I mention I’m also nude in the dream?

I hate that dream.

A solid four years since I’d graduated from the Kansas City Art Institute, and I was still having that recurring nightmare. A psychologist might have said that was a reflection on how unprepared I felt in everyday life.

But I majored in art, not psych, so that psychologist can suck it. I prefer to swallow my feelings, preferably with Cheetos, and let them turn into low-level anxieties and weird inspiration for canvas and paper and T-shirt designs, like a normal person.

“I’m not sure if you passed,” Marc said, picking up the sketchbook and trying his hardest not to look at my boobs. “But your alarm is going off.”

Sure enough, a loud blaring was sounding from my room. Shaking the fuzzies from my head, I ran to turn it off. This wasn’t the first time I’d fallen asleep on the couch while working on a project. It also wasn’t the first time Marc had been the one to wake me. Maybe eventually I’d learn my lesson and work in my bed. Or move my alarm to the living room. And maybe wear more presentable PJ’s.

These sweats probably date to the year of my birth.

“Orphan Black?” Marc asked when I returned, referring to the image I’d been working on. Don’t correct him, don’t correct him, I thought. Don’t--

I took the spiral book from his hands. “It’s Jessica Jones.”

He snapped his fingers. “So close.”

No. Not close at all. I bit back a laugh. Though my roommate and I were near strangers, I’d learned enough about him to know he was not as pop cultured as he could be. Not that anyone expected a history professor to know the difference between Orphan Black and Jessica Jones.

Correction––soon to be history professor. According to Ava, he’d been finishing up his masters this past year with the intent to teach at the university level. He was too busy learning the difference between the Hundred Years War and the Eighty Years War to be cool.

I sincerely doubt he’s ever heard of the Marvel Secret Wars. Lame. Although to be fair, only hardcore comic nerds knew that one, so your definition of cool needed to be fluid.

But, really. When a man looked like that––so firm and sculpted that it showed even under his suit––he didn’t have to be cool. Or.. Okay, I’m more nerdy than cool. All he had to be was the subject of a few of my late-night, um, drawing sessions. Yeah, drawing.

And speaking of his attire…

I pushed my glasses up on my nose and gave him a once-over. Be cool, Madison. Be cool. But he made me nervous. “You clean up pretty well. What’s the occasion?” And the understatement award goes to… me! But I was totally cool, so.

Really, though, he did clean up well. As far as I could tell from my few encounters with the man, Marc had two types of outfits––business casual and workout. (Workout was my favorite, in case anyone wondered. Post-workout, specifically--the shirt was frequently missing by that point.) Today’s look was decidedly more upscale.

“I had to defend my thesis this afternoon,” he said, loosening his tie. I was prepared to loosen my shirt as well, with as hot as the room was rapidly becoming. Actually, it was just him. Ha! Ha!

“Thesis! Man, that’s big.” I knew almost nothing about the thesis process, but I did know it was a big deal.

In fact...crap. Should I have gone to support him? Had anyone been there for him? Was that something people did for a thesis defense? Was that a thing that roommates did for each other?

Welp. Too late to wonder now.

“How did it go?” I asked instead, trying not to stare––okay, drool––as he tossed his tie on the arm of the couch and began unbuttoning his collar. I was going to have to have a “drawing” session immediately following this conversation.

“Pretty good. I’d been offered a teaching position for next year before I’d presented my argument and no one rescinded it afterwards, so I think, all in all, it was a success.”

“Awesome! Congrats! Woot! Yay!” Be COOL, Madison! “On both the thesis and the job. I hope you have big plans to celebrate.”