Not Quite A Love Story (But Pretty Damn Close)

Chapter One: Karma

"HIYA!"

I leaped over the back of the worn couch, and landed in a kind of deformed squat just as Meg's key turned in the lock.

"How many times do I have to tell you not to bloody do that?!" she yelled by way of greeting. Obviously someone was not having a very good day.

"Glad to see you too, honey," I replied sweetly, rooting around for the remote control under the worn cushions of the couch. "Have you by any chance seen the remote?"

"No," she said shortly.

"Hmph," I grunted. I highly doubted that.

After a few more minutes of frustrated searching, I realized that I wouldn't get any real help from her until she'd had some assistance with the groceries. With this goal in mind, I quickly sprang back over the couch, almost sprained my ankle on my landing, managed to right myself, and then finally walked--very casually, of course--to the door, to relieve Meg of several packages.

Having secured the packages, I promptly turned and dropped all of the bags on the floor in the middle of the hallway (quite gently dropped them, I might add, and therefore by no means deserved the brunt of Meg strangled yell of frustration, nor the placement of her foot in my calf), with the exception of one. I kept this in my arms, and began to rummage around in it, searching for any edible snack foods. Soy Cubes...ew...canned pineapple...too hard to open without the proper equipment...aha! Bingo: crisps!

"It's quarter past," remarked Meg absently, having stepped around the mess I was creating in our already cramped foyer to begin storing the groceries in our (also cramped) anally organized pantry and fridge. "Isn't your show on right now?"

"Cripes!" I squealed, and jumped back over the couch, my snack bag secured firmly...in the air, where I'd apparently tossed it in my haste to get into optimal television-viewing position. Fortunately, it landed mere seconds after I did, and I was able to catch it and tear open the packaging without missing a beat.

I found the remote under my bum a mere moment later.

Hastily I punched the POWER button, and flicked through the channels until I got to post number 3.

"...our top story tonight, celebrity Harry Potter and his new flame go house shopping! Exposé has the full story, right after this break!" said the familiar newswoman, in the TV Anchor Personality's trademark nasal tone. The screen flashed with a rapid montage of different photographs of a young man with messy black hair, ridiculously round glasses, rather green eyes, and an oddly-shaped scar, walking with a petite, curly-haired brunette. They both wore varied expressions of extreme annoyance in each photo.

"Can you believe this prick?" I said, munching noisily on the handful of crisps I had just stuffed into my mouth, as the program cut to a commercial about the heavenly qualities of cream cheese. "It's like, he can't go anywhere without having his bleeding picture taken..."

"Well, I for one feel kind of sorry for him," said Meg, as she reentered the breakfast nook, now loaded down with the four very full-looking brown shopping bags I'd left in the hall. She hoisted them awkwardly onto the table, and after a pause, accompanied by definitely exaggerated heavy breathing, continued: "Imagine being followed by cameras everywhere you go? You'd never get any privacy!"

"Bollocks!" I declared indignantly, craning my head around to glare at her. "He prob'ly enjoys ever minute of it! How much you wanna bet he does it on purpose? Leaves anonymous tips or whatever with the people he knows'll photograph him, and then acts all annoyed when they show up. Those people are all about their publicity, I'm telling you!"

Meg sighed resignedly, knowing that once I had made up my mind about something, there would be no rest for anyone until I had converted the whole world. "Why is he famous, again?" she asked instead, moving with a tin of tuna into the recesses of the kitchenette. "What did he do...is he an actor or an athlete or something?"

"No..." I said, shaking my head and frowning. "He's in stocks or something...he's really rich--I think. I dunno; whenever I try and remember, it's like there's this blank spot...I know I know it though! It's right at the back of my head..."

"Buried under all the other debris that seems to collect in there?" Meg smirked.

I gave a loud false gasp. "NO! You did not just say what I think you said! Oh Meghan, how could you woooooooound me sooooo!" I wailed, and collapsed onto the couch, clutching my heart.

Meg merely rolled her eyes and shook her head, and went back to clearing away the groceries. Really, she can be such a spoil sport some times.

"So," I said, popping back up over the couch, "are you and Brandon going to that bash down at the Center tonight?" I waggled my eyebrows for emphasis, even though she couldn't see me with her back turned.

"Maybe..." she said lightly, pretending to be absorbed in the task of stacking cans of sliced pineapple.

"Oh yeah," I said, rolling my eyes, "you moon over him for months; Brandon this, Brandon that, he's got such great eyes, an awesome smile, beautiful backside, he's so sweet--and then he finally asks you to the dance--and you might be going with him."

Meg, having turned around to face me, suddenly became bright red with indignation and embarrassment. She looked like a lobster on acid; her frizzy red hair practically crackled with electricity, and her face was a glowing scarlet.

"I--" she spluttered. She tried again. "We--I never!--you little--I never said he had a--a great butt!"

I erupted in a peal of laughter, in the process almost falling of the couch. She was really that frazzled-looking. I managed to hold a straight face for a few more seconds-, though--long enough to say, "Right; that was when you were muttering about him in your sleep again" in my most thoughtful tone --before I was gone; rolling on the floor, giggling like a maniac and tears streaming down my face. She looked about ready to explode!

Not long after, I was the victim of a very violent and unexpected throw-pillow bombing. Never let it be said that those who are short of temper are short of arm strength or good aim.

Several minutes later, after I had painstakingly combed every last fuzz of the goose down out of my hair, I sniffed loudly and piteously and called, "Well, it's a good thing your mum spent so much money on these pillows; she obviously intended for you to get the most friend-attacking pleasure out of them as you could!"

Meg was in our (also, also cramped) bathroom, getting ready for her date with Brandon. I found it unlikely that she hadn't hear me, as the walls of our small flat were so thin that every night I could hear Mrs. Next Door talking to Mr. Cable Repairman about how her husband was always away on business, and how she was always so lonely...you get the idea. Needless to say that after our cable broke down there was a unanimous decision that we could live without it.

"So," called Meg after a moment. Apparently she had heard me, but was choosing to ignore the comment. "What are you planning on doing while I'm out? You know, Brandon and I don't mind at all if you come with us...it'd be fun!"

"Rubbish!" I proclaimed, so loudly that Mrs. Downstairs' broom tapped the floor upon which I was sitting, quite forcefully. "Rubbish," I repeated, only a tad more quietly than before. "You know you don't want me tagging alone when you and your date go out into the parking lot to fondle--"

"Stuff it, you twat!" she bellowed, before I could finish my thought. Meg can get rather funny at times, especially when she's angry; she always switches to British slang when she's irritated (which is mostly when I am in her proximity), and I must say it sounds very odd in her mostly-Canadian accent. Almost about as odd as when I speak normally--which isn't often, as I find it much easier to just pretend I'm British.

DING! The piercing shriek of our--what I like to call demonic--doorbell shattered my dreamy reminiscence of our move from Windsor, Ontario to the U.K.

"Coming!" I called, slipping and sliding on the fake hard wood of the sitting room as I scrambled to get to my feet. Briefly, I was able to regain my footing, and walk to the door. I peered into the spy hole; a sheepish--but awfully dishey--looking grin returned my gaze. It was Brandon...and he was early.

Oh cripes--was Men every going to be narked!

"Why, hullo Brandon," I said in my very best imitation of a British accent, the one I usually save for strangers or important people, as I pulled the door open with an extravagant gesture, to admit him inside.

Either my British accent was that good, or he was so distracted by the fine coating of goose down covering the entire room, minus the place on the floor where I had been lying seconds ago, that Mark did not remark upon the fact that I was not British, but indeed Canadian, by birth. I like to think it was the former.

"So," I continued in my preferred and most reffered manner of speech, "y'excited for the do tonight?"

"What?" said Brandon, shaking his head as if snapping out of a daze. "Oh; oh yeah, I'm amped out of my mind for this bash...it's supposed to be brill...anyhow...where's Meg?"

"I'm right here..." said Meg, coming out of the bathroom, and fastening an earring. And no, she was not narked. In fact, if anything she seemed excited!

"Meg..." breathed Brandon, shaking his uneven blond fringe out of his eyes. "You look brilliant..."

Meg was wearing a yellow, form-fitting vintage t-shirt with the sleeves cut-off, and one of my old pairs of soft and faded jeans, as well as my leather boots. The clothes created the illusion of soft curves, whereas Meg was usually 'bony' at best. With the impressive collection of bracelets running up and down her arms, borrowed and begged off people from our building and her work, and dark, smoky eye shadow, and her naturally brilliant red hair, she looked very much the part of the intriguing, self-confident, London punk chick--and very unlike the conservative, preppy Meg Hatton I had been living with for seven years. It was rather unnerving.

I winked at her in spite of myself still, though, as she followed Brandon out into the hallway. Before I shut the door on her, she whispered, "Are you sure you don't want to come?"

"I'm fine, Ms. Punk Rocker," I hissed at her, though I gave her a lusty wink, and smiled. "Go, have fun--and the best of British to you!"

She smiled back at me worriedly, like the Meg I knew and loved, and then gave me a quick hug before racing down the stairs after Brandon. I was still grinning like a bloody idiot when I closed the door.

One hour and a half later I was bored out of my head.

I'd raided the cupboards for something good to snack on while I watched the telly. The only problem with that plan was that Meg was a stickler for not bringing junk food into the house, something that severely impeded my extreme munching habits. Never mind the crisps; she'd stolen them from me and hidden them somewhere I'd never be able to find them, for fear that I'd eat them all. It was probably a wise fear.

I ended up searching the flat from top to bottom for an hour anyway. After that, I spent thirty minutes flipping through our grand total of twelve channels, and cursed Mrs. Next Door for her promiscuousness and apparent penchant for cable repair men.

And so finally here I sat, or rather flopped upside down, on the couch, with my legs thrown over the back in a way that would make Meg want to beat me with the lamp. The clock ticked quietly in the kitchenette, and I surmised that it was around 9:30, even though it was still relatively light outside, the sun still on its way down. Damn this September weather! I definitely needed to get out; if I stayed in this miserable room a moment longer, I'd go completely mad.

"Grryeah!" I yelled in frustration, and launched myself off the back of the couch. And then I spent another twenty minutes patting the cushion into shape until even Meg's trained eye would only be able to see the slightest hint of an indentation. Hopefully she would be to tired and/or drunk to notice anyway.

I walked down the short, open hallway, grabbed my cheap, thrift-shop, army green jacket off the hanger, and my flat keys, and stormed out, scarcely remembering to lock the door behind me.

All the way down the 78 steps, from the third floor to the first (yes, I counted), I hoped fervently that it would not be raining, or misty, or cold, or any of the things that the weather seems to be whenever I fancy a late-night stroll.

(Unfortunately, I only got one out of three; it certainly wasn't bloody misty.)

When I'd finally reached the lobby and told Norton (that's our clerk; a sweet old guy with a bit of a sinus affliction) not to wait up for me, I was dismayed to see that dark spots were rapidly spreading and pooling on the sidewalk outside the double set of glass doors. Last-minute stragglers were hurrying to get out of the rain (and the gathering gloom), covering themselves with books, newspapers, and their jackets. I was tempted to just go back upstairs, but something in me shrugged, said "What the hell", walked confidently through the double doors--and completely unsuspectingly into the downpour.

As soon as I stepped out from under the overhang, the heavens opened up and buckets of water poured down onto the streets. People either regarded me curiously and kept moving, or politely informed me of my lack of sanity, and kept moving. Either way, I was definitely the only thing standing in an immobile fashion in the middle of the sidewalk, and apparently people didn't like that.

Ignoring the angry stares at passers-by, that I should have the gall to be insane in public, I made a quick mental calculation. I was underdressed, alone, cold, wet, and cold. Additionally, I was standing right in front of my place of residence, which was warm, dry, and had indoor plumbing. And it was warm. Solution: go inside, and remember to have that little "What the hell" voice in my head surgically removed bright and early the next morning. Okay, so maybe not so bright and early. Actually, I should probably amend that to more along the lines of "bright and around noon-ish". Tomorrow was Saturday, after all...plenty of time to sleep in, read, annoy Meg...

Anyway, the point that I was trying to get across here was that I had indeed formulated an excellent game plan...unfortunately, it had one minor flaw.

Apparently, Norton hadn't remembered to wait up for me, even though I'd told him not to. Alright, so maybe that old wives' tale about witty banter being lost on the elderly is true, but how was I supposed to know that? And besides, I'd only been standing outside for two, maybe three minutes tops. Who on the entire face of the planet would be able to fall asleep that fast? And what kind of respectable clerk couldn't be woken by relentless and extremely angry pounding on the front door?! It's not like the lights were out or--

Okay, so now the lights were out. Great, I thought irately. Are you happy now, Mr. What-the-hell-today-seems-like-a-good-day-to-die-of-hypothermia-voice-in-my-head?! No one's awake--except for me, of course--and Meg's on a date. She hasn't had a date in three years! What are the odds that I get locked out of the apartment on the one night that she does?

Well, whatever they were, I had certainly just upped them. Actually, by now I had probably passed the odds and gone sailing over to excessive Fate-taunting. Leaving your apartment to go for a nice little walk is most definitely shaking your butt right in the face of karmic retribution. Oh yes.

Of course, that's not to say I hadn't further aggravated the situation (or butt-shaking; whatever) by lacking any means of transportation, or of money. I was such an idiot! I couldn't believe that I'd have to wait out here all night, soaking wet, until Meg came back to let me in. And that's if she even came back. She hadn't gotten any in so many years that I wouldn't be surprised if she didn't show up for a couple of weeks. I had to grin, if wryly, at that.

Unfortunately, it wasn't long before I was frowning again. I'd gathered enough sense at least to shelter under the overhang, but it didn't seem as if it would hold up under the elements for much longer. The flimsy nylon drape collapsed at least weekly, whether because of rain, wind, or even pigeons. Tonight looked to be no exception, a theory further backed by the large lake of rainwater that seemed determined to gather right over my head in the middle of the tarp.

Needless to say I had little time to decide what I was going to do.

Stay here; look for a place to stay. Stay here; look for a place. Stay, go. Stay, go. Stay...until what? Until Norton wakes up? That won't be until morning, at the earliest. And Meghan? I didn't know if she'd even be coming home at all, let alone tomorrow morning. How long had I been out here, anyway? Good thing I thought to bring a watch--not.

Go...and? Look for a vacant motel? That was a definite possibility, even though I couldn't pay for a room. Unless they accepted inordinate quantities of pocket lint as currency. I could at least stay in a lobby until morning. But the nearest motel was at least three blocks from here...and I was cold...

A sudden and ominous (though not entirely unexpected) creaking of the drape made my decision in the matter unnecessary. I was not going to stand under there all night, waiting for it to fall on my head. I had a better chance of finding an open motel, or even a vacant hobbit hole, than standing here all night, and getting not rained on, and then let in by Norton of Meghan tomorrow morning. It was definitely time to get moving. And besides, walking would keep me warm.

Maybe I should have jogged.