The Artist felt like she was going to die. Die from starvation and thirst.
Ever since the Artist woke up, she had been nibbling on her personal stash of breadsticks and drinking her stock of cranberry juice to survive. It should've been water but the juice helped her function as a substitute for coffee, which she lacked at the moment.
The reason for the early wake up was her friends. They barged in the flat, woke her up, and declared that they would do their project together. And with the sudden visit, they even disturbed her flatmate's sleep as well and she had to drag all her friends inside her room to avoid any verbal lashing or possible death threats.
'Hell hath no fury like that woman's annoyance,' the Artist noted, following it like a creed.
With their deadline merely hours away, their drive to finish their plates were cranked up to maximum. The Artist and her friends were already duking it out with the plates to be completed as soon as possible – before the day ended.
"Hey, that girl you live with... What's her name?" one of the Artist's friends with a slick ink-black colored hair, suddenly asked.
The Artist, still working on her plate, shrugged her shoulders. "Not my place to tell, Marlon."
"But I wanna know," Marlon said firmly, running his hand through his brushed back hair. "She is as beautiful as the roses in my mama's garden."
"Trust me, you don't want to try anything with her." Rolling her eyes, the Artist ignored Marlon and his quest to get to know the Writer. It was bad enough that when she first met the Writer, it almost escalated to a bloodbath, having her friend who talks like a leading actor in those Spanish soap operas, would end up someone buried six feet under.
The other artists were busy with their own tasks to even bother with Marlon and his attempt to pursue women.
Then, the Artist remembered that she's been inside her room since morning and her flatmate never asked her for food.
Panic surged through the Artist like being struck by a lightning bolt. She forgot to prepare breakfast and lunch. Her mind instantly thought of how her flatmate probably did horrible things to their kitchen just to find something to eat.
'Not my kitchen!'
With those things in mind, plus feeding the possible starving and cranky Writer, the Artist told her friends that she would be taking a break. They waved her off, telling her to bring back something they could eat. So, for the first time since midnight, she left her room to check on their kitchen... and the Writer.
As soon as the Artist stepped out of her room, she sighed in relief. "Nothing's burning..." she whispered after seeing that the apartment was still in one piece and nothing was burning. Though, even if there wasn't anything burning, she could still smell a hint of burnt plastic from the kitchen.
Oh how the Artist prayed to the gods of kitchens – if there are any – for their kitchen to be safe and scorch-free. She's sure that her flatmate would probably buy anything she burned but knowing how expensive the things in the kitchen are—
"May Apollo guide me..." Worried about the holy grounds of sustenance, the Artist went to check its condition before checking if her flatmate's still alive. She could take the anger of her flatmate but a burned kitchen? It was a different story.
The moment the Artist stepped into the kitchen, she released the breath she didn't know she was holding. Everything was clean and not a speck of burnt area or pieces falling apart. What she did noticed though are three things that was not supposed to be on the island counter.
A 6-pack of Mountain Dew cans.
A bottle of cranberry juice.
Two boxes of pizza from Pizza Planet.
Approaching the unusual selection of snack, the Artist found a note on top of the pizza box. "Eat up, wolf pack," she read out loud.
The Artist couldn't help but smile and take the note off the box. Carefully folding the note, she tucked it in her back pocket. With the snacks already prepared for her, she called her buddies to take the snacks and bring it back to her room.
Unable to stop smiling, the Artist was about to go to the Writer's room when the Writer stepped into the kitchen. Her smile widen when she saw the Writer, holding a pen that was being twirled skillfully by her right hand.
"What?" the Writer asked with a questioning gaze.
Still with a smile on her face, the Artist shook her head. "Nothing. Just want to thank you for the pizza."
The Writer shrugged. "I burned six eggs. Melted two cups of instant noodles. And we need to shop for more vegetables," she said nonchalantly, still twirling the pen with skill.
The Artist laughed at how the Writer managed to do such damage yet able to clean up the mess as if nothing happened. It was not a surprise since the Writer was somewhat a neat-freak. "I had an idea. Still, thanks for the cranberry juice." She watched the Writer nod and let out an 'hmm' as an answer. "Anyway, I'll be done before dinner. What do you want to eat?"
There were so much to choose from. With the assortment of ingredients they have in the fridge, the Writer knew that the Artist could whip up anything she wanted. Anything that would make up from the lack of breakfast and lunch. Thinking of what she craved for, she thought of the perfect dinner that her flatmate could cook.
"What about burgers?"