dotinthesky | (no subject)

Single White Female seeks friendly, music-loving, smoker
to share apartment in New York.
MUST NOT be a writer.
MUST ADORE comic books.
Please call XXX-XXXX.

It seemed like the perfect set up. As soon as she opened the door, I knew I wanted to live with her - I knew I had to be the chosen one. She had long blonde hair and dark-rimmed glasses that gave her the air of a powerful career woman. She wore a Chanel suit, with shoulder pads that didn't seem out of place in her geometric and austere home. We got talking and I immediately knew I was winning her heart when I said I loved O.M.D. (I had spotted her music collection as she grabbed a few beers from the fridge).

"When can you move in?" She asked as we were saying our goodbyes.

"As soon as possible," I replied, eyeing her up & down.

On the day the movers brought my bed and boxes, I made sure to wear a power suit. I think I intrigued her. She had probably thought I was one of those casual girls who only wear sneakers and jeans. I had also dyed my hair blonde and got some extensions. "Do you like it?" I asked, swinging the long curls away from my sweaty face. "Uh-hu," she muttered approvingly.

"I have a job interview tomorrow," I said. "It's in your publishing company! Maybe we could be co-workers too!"

"Oh!" She gasped excitedly. "But I thought you wanted to pursue a career in acting."

"Acting schmacting. It's not as glamorous as your life. You have really inspired me."

These news were obviously too astonishing for her as she turned away and went to her bedroom.

"I'm thinking of changing my name too!" I called out after her.

The following weeks flew by. The interview at the publishing company was a success, thanks to name-dropping my roommate; her friends were charming, specially when they pointed out how similar we looked, how sisterly we were; New York was no more a dark and angry city, but a vibrant place for me to explore. I was so caught up in my new life that sometimes I forgot who I was and ended up passing myself off as her. I couldn't resist her cabinet of perfumes, mascara and clothes. Sometimes, lying in bed at night, I could almost believe we were long lost sisters. Fate had brought us together and nothing would tear us apart.

One weekend, while she was away in Boston boy-scoring, an English man rang the doorbell. He said he was an ex-boyfriend of hers, and "who the hell are you?" I thought he was a jerk, but I still let him in. I was curious to learn more about her taste in men. When I saw his face, I immediately sensed trouble.

After some chitchat we ended up in bed. As he lay naked underneath me, grunting and calling her name (I asked him to do that), I thought to myself "hmm, so this is how it feels to have her life." I also thought that if she never came back from Boston I could always just keep going, kill off my real self and take over her life. But things got out of control. The English guy started exploring my body and got upset.

"You've got a dick!" he screamed. He wouldn't shut up! So I did what anyone would have done in my position: I hit him with my high heels. Oh, and what horror it was when the heel went straight into his right eye! He fell back on her bed, spilling blood everywhere.

Thankfully, I had the whole of Sunday to clean up the mess, buy her new sheets, chop the body and dump it in the sewer. Hey, maybe those urban legends about crocodiles underneath New York's streets were true.

We continued to be best friends until some other problems came along (police, screams, anger, things i don't wish to remember.) I wonder sometimes how she's doing and why she doesn't write. I know she misses me and wishes I could be living with her again. Oh well, my lawyer says 25 more years, which I'm sure will go by like a breeze.