a/n: i had fun writing this. it's now past midnight and i just want to write more, but i can't because, well, i need to sleep. i am a very fickle person, that's why i'm writing this now instead of raven feather which was just...a spurt of the moment post. sorry. but this...this i like so far. it's going to be fun. i hope y'all like it too. review if you want more :)

this is dedicated to Venus Smurf1 who's stuck-in-window idea i nicked. um, oops. --grins--

.one.

— —

I was stuck. Not just figuratively stuck, like in the moment or stuck for words. No, I was literally stuck—in a window. And now just in any window; it was the bathroom window of a fancy Italian restaurant in the high end of town. My shoulders and arms were hanging outside, with me staring miserably down at the disgusting innards of an open dumpster, while my legs and backside were sticking out right into Luigi’s fancy-smancy loo.

I was suddenly regretting wearing my favourite little black dress.

You might be wondering just why I was stuck in a window. There was actually a very sound, reasonable explanation for it. And it was all because of Chelsea. Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea.

She was totally going to be getting a stiletto to the temple.

Forty minutes later, with my last pair of clean stockings sporting a ladder the size of my entire leg and a blister that wanted to compete in the Let’s-Piss-Donnie-Off Marathon, I was seriously annoyed. I burst through the apartment door, frightening poor William up from the couch, and he stared at me in wide-eyed alarm. “Chelsea!” I screeched, and she came running in from the kitchen, clutching a wooden spoon covered in chocolate icing and wearing a pair of lacy underpants.

“Donnie!” she explained. “What are you doing home so early? Your date—”

“You mean the blind date you set me up with!”

She shuffled her feet and asked, biting her lip, “You didn’t like him?”

“Like him?” I gave a hysteric laugh and threw my purse at the couch; it missed William’s head by a bare inch. He seemed too startled to move. “What was to like, Chelse? Should I have liked his Yosemite Sam moustache? Or his tan leather jacket? Or even his chequered shirt? Chequered, Chelsea; chequered! You know how I feel about chequered shirts!”

“Um,” William spoke up, frowning, “what’s wrong with chequered shirts?”

I gave Chelsea a disbelieving look, which she shrugged at and said to her boyfriend, “Nothing you would understand, Hun.”

“Oh,” said William.

“Chelsea!” I wailed, stomping my feet. “I had to escape through the bathroom window!”

Chelsea frowned, creasing up her pretty tanned face. “Again?”

“Yes! Except this time I got stuck!”

She laughed. It was a reflex action, but one I didn’t appreciate in the least. I swear I had bruises on my hips from squeezing through the window frame. I crossed my arms and pouted. Chelsea stopped laughing and stared. “You’re serious?”

“Yes! I got stuck! I could only get through when I hiked up my dress and wiggled like a fucking worm until I fell out into a dumpster!”

“Oh.” She scratched her nose and motioned to my dress. “Is that what that stain is? I didn’t want to say anything; it looked kind of…suspicious.”

I stared down at the white, crusty mark across my front and felt a rush of revulsion. “Gross, Chelsea! It is not a bodily fluid! Especially not the body fluid of someone with more facial hair than my grandma! And trust me, that’s no easy feat!”

She sniffed and shrugged a single bony shoulder. “It looks a bit like yogurt.”

“Or cream,” added William, who shrunk back when I glared at him.

“You guys are not helping.” I huffed and crossed to my favourite armchair and collapsed into it. Immediately I felt the tension slip from my shoulders to pool in my stomach, creating an uncomfortable, annoying ache. “It was horrible. He was horrible.”

Chelsea cooed and moved towards me, depositing the mixing bowl on the coffee table. She sat down beside William, who looked between us as if unsure what to do. “What happened, Don?”

I hunched my shoulders. “He ordered entrees.”

A wince came from Chelsea. “Really?” I nodded. “But he didn’t know you don’t like entrees. It was an easy mistake to make.”

“He should have asked me instead of ordering garlic prawns, of all things. They’re like insects of the sea.” I shuddered. “And then he had to sit there while he we were waiting for the main course, breathing garlic on me like he was protecting himself from airborne vampiric bugs.”

“What else happened?”

“He…” I cringed just thinking about it, but I continued on with: “He said I looked…pretty.”

Chelsea leant back quickly. “He didn’t!”

I nodded sadly. “He did.”

“Um,” interrupted William again, frowning beneath his boyish blonde fringe. He looked hesitant when he asked, “Wh-what’s wrong with that? You do look pretty. Well,” he glanced at my dishevelled appearance, his eyes lingering for a long moment on the unnamed white stain on my black bodice before they returned to my face; “you did look pretty, before you left.”

“Gee,” I muttered sarcastically, “thanks William.”

“But what was wrong with him saying—”

“It’s the first pick-up line a guy uses on a date,” answered Chelsea, placing a hand on William’s knee. She looked at me as she said, “Donnie hates it.”

“For good reason,” I spat. “First he calls me pretty, next he’s asking for a blow job.”

William’s cheeks were pink. “Ah, I don’t think it’s like that—”

“Trust me,” I cut in. “I know it is like that.”

Chelsea and I exchanged looks, and she said with a nod, “Pervo Pete.”

I nodded and glared into thin air. “Pervo Pete.”

We had silence for a few long moments, a silence in which I remembered having dinner with Pervo Pete trying to play footsies with my thighs the whole time. I was happy to be thrown out of the restaurant that night for disorderly conduct; Pete sure did deserve having a bowl of soup dumped over his head. Finally the contemplative silence was broken by Chelsea. “So what lead to you escaping through the bathroom window?”

I met her eyes. “He told me he was a science major.”

“Ouch,” she said, wincing. William opened his mouth, more than likely to ask just what was wrong with my date being a science major, but Chelsea patted his hand and said, “Donnie’s an art major, Will. Science and art just don’t mix.”

“They could—” he started, but I cut him off, shaking my head.

“They don’t when I’m involved.” I stood up, yawning and stretching my tense arms. “I think I’m going to have a shower and go to bed. I’ve got school tomorrow.”

Chelsea stood as well and gave me a hug. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out, Donnie,” she said as she pulled away.

I shrugged and walked towards the doorway. “That’s what you said for the last twenty blind dates.”

“I really mean it this time,” she said earnestly. “I really thought Harrison would be perfect.”

I screwed up my face. “You really thought someone called ‘Harrison’ would be perfect for me?”

Chelsea rolled her eyes and sank back beside William, who didn’t hesitate in wrapping an arm around her thin shoulders. Her chestnut hair glittered bronze in the dim lounge room lights as she said, “You’re too picky.”

“And you’re too easy,” I muttered, turning my back on the happy couple. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Sweet dreams, Donnie,” said Chelsea softly.

“’night,” murmured William.

I went to my room and grabbed my pyjamas before heading to the bathroom. I shimmied out of my little black dress and stared down at it, pooled at my feet like a defeated solider. “Next time,” I told it. “We can’t fail against every man we meet.” My dress didn’t answer, not like I expected it to, but I felt a little disheartened as I stepped into the shower.

I had really thought this date would be perfect, too.

-

-

I was in no good mood the next morning. My alarm woke me up at eight o’clock and I wanted to smash the contraption repeatedly against my dresser. But I didn’t, knowing I had my first seminar in thirty minutes. Rolling from bed, I heaved on a pair of rumpled jeans from the floor and fumbled with a shirt. It smelt clean, so I pulled it on. I scooped my bag up from the desk, making sure it contained my laptop and iPod. Not bothering with breakfast, I put a sticky note on Chelsea’s door, saying I’d pick up dinner, and left the house after slipping on my yellow flip-flops.

The university was in the middle of town, meaning I had to hurry to get there. Especially since I rode my bike everywhere, it meant I had to pedal extra hard. By the time I made it to the school, my thighs were screaming and sweat was slick on my forehead. But at least I was on time. I locked my bike up by the steps and hurried into the empty hall.

“Shit,” I muttered, quickening my pace. My flip-flops made odd squelching sounds against the tiles and my saddle bag kept banging into my hip, but I hurried on. When I made it to the lecture hall, the door was closed, meaning class had already started. Swearing repeatedly under my breath, I prepared myself to enter and become the centre of unwanted attention. Fortunately, though, when I entered the professor was turned to the board where he was writing something up in bold black letters, so I managed to slip into an end seat unnoticed. I had my laptop out and my one of my headphones in by the time Professor Mark turned back to the class. He didn’t even glance in my direction.

I smirked at a job well done.

“This seminar, as I explained last hour, we are studying romantic literature that has various themes and connotations,” he droned. “On the board, as well as noted in your syllabus, is an example of a suitable topic of discussion. You are to choose a work that falls in this category, be it a famous work of literature or a lesser known literature piece. When you choose a topic, you must present it to me, to make sure it falls in the correct listing. Incorrect topics will be marked with a Fail, unless you have a very reasonable excuse.”

Would being stuck in a window for half an hour qualify as a reasonable explanation? I thought, smiling, I could say my piece depended on my surroundings; I suppose I could write an essay on the contents of modern dumpsters compared to those used in romantic novels—that is if there is a dumpster of garbage even in a romance book. I suppose it would mess with the ‘connotation’ of the literature.

I snorted aloud without meaning to. As one, all the students in the rows of seats in front of me turned to stare. Professor Marks looked up at me as he asked monotonously, as if he had to deal with girls like me all the time, “Do you have something to add, Miss Spencer, on the different connotations used in romantic literature of the nineteenth century?”

“Um,” I squeaked. There was stifled laughter and heat flared across my face. I cleared my throat and raised my throat, “No sir, I was just…expressing my excitement for the topic ahead.”

The Professor raised his bushy brown eyebrows. “By snorting, Miss Spencer?”

More laughter and I felt like I was back in high school, stuttering in front of the class as I tried to say my speech on the social habits of baboons. “It was the result of me trying to keep in my eagerness on this topic, sir.” I gave him a bright smile and kept eye contact. As I had expected, Mr Mark looked away. This was the only time I used my gender to my benefit; for some reason male teachers didn’t like female students staring them in the eyes. I had found that out in my last year of high school, when I had been sent to the Deputy Principal’s office for smoking in a spare classroom. Our Deputy was a man in his mid- forties, single and balding, and when I had turned on the charm and kept staring into his eyes, he had let me off with a stuttering warning about not doing it again.

I had given up smoking the year before; I had taken up chain dating instead. Blame it all on Chelsea; she had been the one to lend me a cigarette in the first place, saying to ‘Give it a go’. And she was also the one to set me up on my first blind date to Fredrick Moy, a guy I had spotted a few times around campus. Since then I had dated about a dozen different guys, all as bad as each other. It seemed like I hadn’t met a single decent guy in years.

“Right,” said Mr Mark, getting back on track after my interruption, “the topics available are…”

This was my cue to plug my other ear with a headphone, which I did without preamble. For the rest of the class, I tapped my finger along to The White Stripes, and if Mr Mark just so happened to glance my way, I warded him off with a bright, glittering smile. He was quick to look away.

-

-

I grunted as I pushed through the apartment door that evening, my hands busy clinging to plastic bags full of steaming Chinese food. “Honey,” I yelled, “I’m home!”

There was a strange noise, like a yelping little animal, and suddenly William was standing in the kitchen doorway wearing only one of Chelsea’s tiny red thongs. I stared at him. He stared at me. “Um,” he said.

Chelsea suddenly skipped into the room, in nothing but her undergarments. She glanced at me and beamed. “Ooh,” she said, dancing towards me and eyeing off the bags in my hands. “You bought food.”

“I said I would,” I stated, tearing my eyes away from William. I gave Chelsea a look. She frowned. I gave her another look, harder this time, and nodded my head in the direction of the kitchen. She looked and gave a silly little laugh.

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” she said airily, waving her hand. “We were just messing around.”

I frowned. “And I should, what? Just ignore the fact that your G-string is just not made for a person of William’s…stature?”

William made another weird sound, this time sounding much like he was just kicked. “Um, I’m, I’m going to go put some…clothes on…” He walked a few steps forward and started shuffling sideways, keeping his hands hovering over his crutch. I watched him, trying to keep from laughing. Finally, he broke into a run, and I watched his nude backside as he sprinted down the hall.

I turned back to Chelsea, to see that she had been doing much the same. She gave me a sideways look before smirking and starting to walk after him. “I’ll be right back,” she said over her shoulder.

I watched her go and when she was gone, shuddered.

“I think it’s time I move out,” I muttered.

“And move where?” shouted Chelsea from the bedroom. Her words were followed by a very manly giggle.

Shuddering again, I said lowly, “An asylum would be nice.”

I ate the Chinese food alone that night.

— —