Page 6 of Holiday Hostilities
2
OLIVIA
November
Getting home at four in the morning after an inbound flight from JFK to ATL, followed by five stops on the red line and a miserable twenty-minute ride on a bus with broken air conditioning, is not the worst thing in the world for me.
I’m used to antisocial hours and late-night public transit, and my new commute in Atlanta isn’t half as bad as the two hours I used to spend on the hot, stuffy, overcrowded London Underground every time I got off the clock.
But at least in my previous flat share across the Atlantic, I didn’t have roommates who religiously insisted on practicing the bagpipes at six in the morning.
“Noooooo,” I groan aloud. It’s still pitch dark outside. I roll over onto my stomach, pulling my pillow over my head in a vain effort to drown out the horrific noise. “Not yet. I’m not ready.”
“Hey, keep it down!” A crotchety holler carries up through the vents, followed by a flurry of banging noises. That’ll be Mrs. Kibitzky, who lives in the apartment below us, tapping on her ceiling with her cane.
Not that I blame her. I completely support her position on the human alarm clock we are both enduring. Because being woken up after two hours of sleep by bagpipe music—more specifically, terrible bagpipe music where the player botches every second note—isthe worst thing in the world.
There’s a moment of blissful silence. And for a shadow of a second, the optimist in me dares to believe that Gregory might’ve ceased and desisted.
My hope is short-lived.
My roommate has unwrapped his lips from his bagpipes long enough to call out cheerfully in his lilting Scottish accent. “Good morning, Mrs. K! I have a new one for you today. It’s called ‘Highland Laddie’ and I think you’ll really enjoy it.”
“No! Didn’t you hear me, numb-nuts? I said KEEP IT DOWN!” Mrs. Kibitzky’s protests are drowned out by a series of melodious-less blasts that shake the floorboards.
With a defeated sigh, I roll sideways and let my feet hit the ground. I’m awake now, so there’s no point lying here in a bed of pain. Literally, I think my ears might be bleeding.
As I stand and stretch, my bedroom door flies open.
“It’s over!” Romy, my other roommate, announces dramatically, her hand clenched over her heart. She’s wearing nothing but a bra, men’s boxer shorts, and (bizarrely) knee socks with heeled sandals. “It’s really over this time.”
“Again?” I ask dryly, reaching for my water cup and taking a long sip. My head feels thick from lack of sleep.
“Aren’t you going to ask what happened?” Romy demands, half-yelling over the bagpipes blaring from the next room.
I wasn’t, actually. Not because I’m callous or uncaring, but because this is the fourth time this month that she and Elliott have broken up “for real this time.” And we’re only sixteen days into November.
“He thinks my boobs are too big! Too big!” she continues, mistaking my silence for interest.
I stifle a yawn. “Did hesaythat?”
Romy pauses. “Well, not in as many words.”
It takes all of my self-control not to roll my eyes. This time, it’s boobs. Last time, it was because she asked him if he’d still be in love with her if she turned into an earthworm, and he said no.
Which I honestly thought was fair.
“But he said he thought Jessica Alba had a great body, and her boobs are way smaller than mine!” Romy sputters.
I stare at my roommate. “Don’t you have implants?”
“That’s not the point!”
My temples throb. It’swaytoo early for this.
“Romy, it’s six in the morning,” I say as nicely as I can. “I’m sorry you guys broke up again, but can we please talk about this later? I feel a migraine coming on.”
“Fine,” she huffs. “Can I borrow five bucks?”