Savannah nor Ryan spoke for several moments after her departure, as they watched her in silence.
Finally, Savannah said, “Do you like her?”
“Not really.”
“Me either. She seemed a bit worried, don’t you think? As though she might be expecting some sort of trouble.”
“I thought so myself. Definitely concerned about something.”
Savannah crossed her arms over her chest and continued to watch the lady thoughtfully. “What sort of wine was she drinking?”
“I believe it was a Merlot.”
“You don’t chill Merlot, do you?”
He gave her a sly little grin. “Nope, you don’t.”
She nodded. “I didn’t think so.”
Atlanta sat on the bed, putting the finishing touches on her makeup, attempting to see what she was doing in the tiny, handheld mirror she had brought with her, while trying to ignore her roommate, who was hogging the well-lit dressing table. They had reached an uneasy truce. The only details of their unspoken agreement: Don’t look at each other, say a word to each other, or in any way acknowledge the other’s existence.
This was especially difficult for Atlanta, whose mouth seldom stopped running for any reason, even self-preservation.
The only sounds were the clatter of makeup paraphernalia, and Barbie’s frequent cell-phone conversations. It seemed her phone was constantly buzzing, or she was continually calling someone.
Atlanta eavesdropped with interest; Barbie had a fascinating social life. Better still, she seemed to be pissing a lot of people off. Every exchange appeared to be some sort of confrontation.
When the phone rang again, Barbie swore, threw down her mascara, and grabbed it, knocking over a bottle of foundation in the process. She ignored the ‘Tawny Taupe” puddle that spread across the dressing table’s marble top.
“How the hell am I supposed to get ready for dinner?” She stabbed at the “on” button and put the phone to her ear. “Yeah, who is it? I told you not to call me anymore! Are you stupid or what?!”
Atlanta continued to apply her blush, but her ears were practically standing out on stems.
“Big deal!” Barbie continued. “Some cheap flowers. What did you do, pick them out of your mother’s backyard? Geez, you’re such a freakin’ loser. I hate you, you know that? I freakin’ hate you.”
Atlanta glanced over at the flower arrangement that was obviously from a professional shop, and had set someone back a hundred dollars or more. Backyard flowers my eye, she thought. Some guy is treating her better than she deserves.
Barbie clicked off the phone and began dabbing at the spilled foundation with a handful of tissues.
Eagerly, Atlanta waited for the next scene of the Barbara Matthew’s soap opera to begin. It didn’t take long.
Barbie tossed the soiled tissues in the general direction of the garbage can, then whirled around on her seat. “Aren’t you about done with your face there, Georgia?”
“What’s it to you?” Atlanta replied. “I’m not escorting you to dinner, so why should you care when I’m ready?”
“I need a little private time in my room, if that’s okay with you. Or even if it’s not.”
Slowly, methodically, Atlanta began to replace her makeup items in her cosmetic bag. While she wouldn’t admit that she was deliberately irritating her roommate, the old metaphor, “As slow as molasses in January” did float through her mind.
“Sorry,” Atlanta said, sounding completely remorse-free. “I’m not even dressed yet. I’ll do well to make it to dinner on time; I’m almost always late for everything. It’s part of my charm.”
“What charm?” Barbie grumbled as she picked up the phone again and punched in some numbers.
As Atlanta casually strolled around the room, collecting her lingerie, dress, and shoes from her assorted suitcases, she didn’t even bother to pretend that she wasn’t listening.
Barbie’s party answered right away. ‘Yeah, it’s me,” she said. “What’s
Finally, Savannah said, “Do you like her?”
“Not really.”
“Me either. She seemed a bit worried, don’t you think? As though she might be expecting some sort of trouble.”
“I thought so myself. Definitely concerned about something.”
Savannah crossed her arms over her chest and continued to watch the lady thoughtfully. “What sort of wine was she drinking?”
“I believe it was a Merlot.”
“You don’t chill Merlot, do you?”
He gave her a sly little grin. “Nope, you don’t.”
She nodded. “I didn’t think so.”
Atlanta sat on the bed, putting the finishing touches on her makeup, attempting to see what she was doing in the tiny, handheld mirror she had brought with her, while trying to ignore her roommate, who was hogging the well-lit dressing table. They had reached an uneasy truce. The only details of their unspoken agreement: Don’t look at each other, say a word to each other, or in any way acknowledge the other’s existence.
This was especially difficult for Atlanta, whose mouth seldom stopped running for any reason, even self-preservation.
The only sounds were the clatter of makeup paraphernalia, and Barbie’s frequent cell-phone conversations. It seemed her phone was constantly buzzing, or she was continually calling someone.
Atlanta eavesdropped with interest; Barbie had a fascinating social life. Better still, she seemed to be pissing a lot of people off. Every exchange appeared to be some sort of confrontation.
When the phone rang again, Barbie swore, threw down her mascara, and grabbed it, knocking over a bottle of foundation in the process. She ignored the ‘Tawny Taupe” puddle that spread across the dressing table’s marble top.
“How the hell am I supposed to get ready for dinner?” She stabbed at the “on” button and put the phone to her ear. “Yeah, who is it? I told you not to call me anymore! Are you stupid or what?!”
Atlanta continued to apply her blush, but her ears were practically standing out on stems.
“Big deal!” Barbie continued. “Some cheap flowers. What did you do, pick them out of your mother’s backyard? Geez, you’re such a freakin’ loser. I hate you, you know that? I freakin’ hate you.”
Atlanta glanced over at the flower arrangement that was obviously from a professional shop, and had set someone back a hundred dollars or more. Backyard flowers my eye, she thought. Some guy is treating her better than she deserves.
Barbie clicked off the phone and began dabbing at the spilled foundation with a handful of tissues.
Eagerly, Atlanta waited for the next scene of the Barbara Matthew’s soap opera to begin. It didn’t take long.
Barbie tossed the soiled tissues in the general direction of the garbage can, then whirled around on her seat. “Aren’t you about done with your face there, Georgia?”
“What’s it to you?” Atlanta replied. “I’m not escorting you to dinner, so why should you care when I’m ready?”
“I need a little private time in my room, if that’s okay with you. Or even if it’s not.”
Slowly, methodically, Atlanta began to replace her makeup items in her cosmetic bag. While she wouldn’t admit that she was deliberately irritating her roommate, the old metaphor, “As slow as molasses in January” did float through her mind.
“Sorry,” Atlanta said, sounding completely remorse-free. “I’m not even dressed yet. I’ll do well to make it to dinner on time; I’m almost always late for everything. It’s part of my charm.”
“What charm?” Barbie grumbled as she picked up the phone again and punched in some numbers.
As Atlanta casually strolled around the room, collecting her lingerie, dress, and shoes from her assorted suitcases, she didn’t even bother to pretend that she wasn’t listening.
Barbie’s party answered right away. ‘Yeah, it’s me,” she said. “What’s
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