Walking Disaster

on her stomach, in almost the same position she was in when I left, just on the other side of the bed. Part of her hair was matted against
her face, the other in soft, caramel waves across my pillow.
    Abby’s T-shirt was bunched around her waist, exposing her light blue panties. They were just cotton, not particularly sexy, and she looked comatose, but even so, seeing her crashed
haphazardly on my white sheets with the afternoon sun pouring in through the windows, her beauty was indescribable.
    “Pidge? You gonna get up today?”
    She mumbled and then turned her head. I took a few more steps, deeper into the room.
    “Pigeon.”
    “Hep . . . merf . . . furfon . . . shaw.”
    America was right. She wasn’t waking up anytime soon. I closed the door softly behind me, and then joined Shepley and America in the living room. They were picking at a plate of nachos
America had made, watching something girly on TV.
    “She up?” America asked.
    I shook my head, sitting in the recliner. “Nope. She was talking about something, though.”
    America smiled, her lips sealed to keep food from falling out. “She does that,” she said, her mouth full. “I heard you leave your bedroom last night. What was that
about?”
    “I was being an ass.”
    America’s brows shot up. “How so?”
    “I was frustrated. I pretty much told her how I felt and it was like it went in one ear and out the other.”
    “How
do
you feel?” she asked.
    “Tired at the moment.”
    A chip flew at my face but fell short, landing on my shirt. I picked it up and popped it in my mouth, crunching the beans, cheese, and sour cream. It wasn’t half bad.
    “I’m serious. What did you say?”
    I shrugged. “I don’t remember. Something about being who she deserved.”
    “Aw,” America said, sighing. She leaned away from me, in Shepley’s direction, with a wry smile. “That was pretty good. Even you have to admit.”
    Shepley’s mouth pulled to one side; that was the only reaction she would get from him for that comment.
    “You are such a grouch,” America said with a frown.
    Shepley stood. “No, baby. I’m just not feeling all that great.” He grabbed a copy of
Car and Driver
from the end table, and headed for the toilet.
    With a sympathetic expression America watched Shepley leave, and then turned to me, her face metamorphosing into disgust. “Guess I’ll be using your bathroom for the next few
hours.”
    “Unless you want to lose your sense of smell for the rest of your life.”
    “I might want to after that,” she said, shivering.
    America took her movie off pause, and we watched the rest of it. I didn’t really know what was going on. A woman was talking something about old cows and how her roommate was a man-whore.
By the end of the movie, Shepley had rejoined us, and the main character had figured out she had feelings for her roommate, she wasn’t an old cow after all, and the man-whore, now reformed,
was angry about some stupid misunderstanding. She just had to chase him down the street, kiss him, and it was all good. Not the worst movie I’d ever seen, but it was still a chick flick . . .
and still lame.
    In the middle of the day, the apartment was well lit, and the TV was on, albeit on mute. Everything seemed normal, but also empty. The stolen signs were still on the walls, hung next to our
favorite beer posters with half-naked hot chicks sprawled in various positions. America had cleaned up the apartment, and Shepley was lying on the couch, flipping through channels. It was a normal
Saturday. But something was off. Something was missing.
    Abby.
    Even with her in the next room, passed out, the apartment felt different without her voice, her playful jabs, or even the sound of her picking at her nails. I’d grown accustomed to it all
in our short time together.
    Just as the credits of the second movie began to roll, I heard the bedroom door open, and Abby’s feet dragging along the floor. The bathroom door opened and closed. She was going to start
getting ready for her date with Parker.
    Instantly, my temper began to boil.
    “Trav,” Shepley warned.
    Shepley’s words from earlier in the day replayed in my head. Parker was playing the game, and I had to play it better. My adrenaline died down, and I relaxed against the couch cushion. It
was time to put my game face on.
    The whining sound of the bathroom pipes signaled Abby’s intent to take a shower. America stood, and then nearly danced into my bathroom. I