The Writer savored the peace and quiet within her room.
With her deadline was fast approaching, the Writer was burning the midnight oil to finish her manuscript. Needing the soothing sounds of solace—and her beloved RnB music. Her editor would be considering it if she had some grammatical errors here and there, but she prided herself in making sure she didn’t make too many mistakes. Seeking near perfection for it.
Hence the Writer needed her Zen moment.
Concentration to find the tiniest mistakes.
An eye for every err—
“GODS BE DAMMIT! PUSHHH!”
“SHUT UP! I’M PUSHING IT ALREADY!”
“PUSH IT WOMAN!”
“SEÑORITA, PUSH HARDER!”
--or… The Writer gritted her teeth as she heard the noises coming from the Artist’s room. She tried using her noise canceller headphones to block the sounds but she could still hear the shouts from the Artist’s friends.
“JUST A LITTLE MORE!”
The Writer growled and slammed her hands on her table. ‘Enough is enough.’ She decided to check why her flatmate’s friends were causing so much racket and planned on kicking them out.
“YOU SERIOUSLY NEED TO PUSH!”
“I’LL PUSH YOU OFF A CLIFF IF YOU SAY ‘PUSH’ AGAIN! GAAAAH!”
The Writer stood before the door of her flatmate’s room and wondered what idiocy were they up to that needed so much noise. When she opened the door, no words could define what was in front of her.
Six people were in the middle of the room, all looked like they went to war – hair tousled and a manic look on their faces.
One of them was a woman with a long black hair and has a look of someone that’s about to murder everyone around her. She was wearing a loose dress with a big bump on her belly and her legs propped up as if she was giving birth.
“Hey guys! C’mon, chill!” the Artist said, hoping to calm her friends down. “This is getting far too intense. You should just relax! We’re not even having a freaking baby! It’s just a ball!” she pointed at the big belly of the dark haired woman.
The raven haired woman pushed out the ball from under her dress and sat up, arms crossed. “This is stupid! Why did we even agree to some theater group to sketch a pregnant woman giving birth?” she questioned which then made every one of the artist’s friends bicker and point fingers at each other.
The Artist shook her head and began sketching the scene in the middle of her room. “Man, I thought giving you guys energy drinks would just wake you up… not like—Oh hey!” she noticed that her flatmate by her doorway and waved her hand. “Are we too loud?”
The Writer nodded, still not sure of transpired before her.
Everyone in the room turned to look at who the Artist waved at. Marlon smiled widely and immediately left the group.
"Oye, mamacita! Wanna have a baby with me?" Marlon asked, wagging his brows suggestively.
The Writer turned to her flatmate with a cocked brow; silently asking if the Spanish-speaking guy was serious.
Shrugging her shoulders, the owner of the room placed her art materials on her bed and approached the Writer. With a dashing smile, she winked at her flatmate and said, “He’s joking. But… even if he is serious, would you want to have a baby with him or do you want to have one with me instead?”
The Writer’s eyes narrowed at the Artist. “There are things there that are not naturally possible.” She sighed. “We are both women, so your idea of ‘having a baby with me’ won’t work.”
Grinning wider, the Artist cupped the Writer’s chin with her index finger and thumb. “Sadly. But the process… would you like to do it with me?”
Staring at those onyx colored eyes that shone of mischief, the Writer sighed once again and swiped the hand away from her chin. She was tired of the noise and she thought of one way to make sure they won’t disturb her.
The Writer leaned her head forward, stopping a good few inches away from the artist’s. Slowly exhaling, she stared at the Artist and asked, “How can we if we have all these people around us?”
The Artist suddenly froze up when she felt the hotness of the brunette’s breath on her lips. She was lost for words and her mind instantly pictured several things involving her bed, the Writer, and clothes on the floor. Possibly sensual music playing at the background.
When the Writer achieved her goal of countering the Artist’s teasing, she leaned away and turned to the friends. “Keep your voices down, I’m working,” she said icily, adding a cold glare at everyone, before leaving the room.
Everyone aside from Marlon, shivered when they heard the cold and threatening voice of the Writer. How her eyes showed no emotion but at the same time, cold and threatening. That if anyone of them even tried to make a noise, they were sure that would meet their doom within seconds.
“Yowza! Mamacita’s hot and sizzling!” Marlon whistled in admiration.
The owner of the room nodded in agreement. She recovered from her dazed state and balled her fists as she tried to stop her lips from smiling widely. ‘Sneaky woman.’
A few hours later, both creative people were able to finish their projects on time. The writer thanked the goddess Sága for the peace and quiet while the artist thanked Apollo for the inspiration that her flatmate had given to her.