The decision to move in with my best friend after college was probably one of the biggest mistakes I have ever made. I could complain about it for hours and still not even graze the many reasons in which that decision was dangerous to my sanity, friendship, and composure.

As I stare in horror across my kitchen counter, I am presently a witness to one of these reasons in the form of my roommate’s new boyfriend. Dale – of course – is mercilessly devouring my last carton of ice cream as if he were a girl who had just endured an especially cruel breakup. Excuse me; Dale is rapidly devouring my ice cream directly out of its container.

“Want some?” Dale’s mouth is so full that he has resorted to gesturing with his spoon. Why is he offering me my own ice cream?

“No,” I’m librarian-intolerant, I want to snark, but that statement would be invalid. I don’t mind Dale – I honestly adore his personality – but this sudden change of scene and circumstance in which we are now meeting is more irritating than I could have initially imagined. Dale has recently taken up the occupation of resident Couch Potato in Reilly and my apartment, despite the fact that he does not actually live here. I may have to start rationing the food Reilly and I consume, considering the inordinate amount Dale has reserved for the composition of his very own paunch. “No, I’m good.” I slump my cheek against my propped up fist.

I presume that the motive for Dale’s abrupt appearance in my kitchen and onslaught of my food is that he plans to take Reilly out to dinner (it really is remarkable that he can even think about eating any more; he’s already wolfed down at least half of what I had kept in the refrigerator).

Unfortunately, Reilly’s not here; she’s stuck in traffic, so I’m stuck with Dale.

And this, as I have already stated, is one of the many reasons I should never have elected to room with my best friend; I have to baby-sit her boyfriend and try to maintain a semblance of civility while he ravages my refrigerator – or in the recent case, my freezer.

Maybe I should get him some play-doh to keep him occupied…

I am slapped out of my reverie by the ominous sound of an opening carton and the appalling realization that Dale has revisited to his post in front of the open refrigerator.

I snap, spinning around on my stool just in time, “Dale, do NOT drink that milk out of its carton! What are you? The clichéd average male?” My voice is laden with not-so-empty threats and Dale looks like a kid who has just been caught by his mom sneaking candy before dinner.

I almost feel sorry.

Reilly picks this opportune moment to make her dramatic entrance.

“So sorry I’m late! There was an accident on highway 94, and cars were lined up all the way down the beltline.” She strolls over to receive a kiss from Dale before facing me, “Odette, did you feed Emerson?”

Emerson is Reilly’s fish. He’s obese and orange and overall hideous. And yes, I did feed him. I often feed him just for fun – when a fish attains the body mass that Emerson has, his eating habits ascend to the level of mildly entertaining. I kind of wish he would explode, but I worry that if he dies Reilly will kill me for sabotaging her beloved aquatic pet.

“Yeah.” I seize the milk carton from Dale’s hand and close the still-open refrigerator door. “By the way, we’re going to need more ice cream.”

“Okay?” Reilly accuses me with her eyes and I throw my hands up in a shrug of innocence. Why does she automatically assume that I was the one responsible for our present state of ice cream deficit?

Dale coughs guiltily, but Reilly, oblivious, simply smiles at him. “Are you ready to go?” He nods and presents her his hand. Reilly waves to me, Dale salutes, and just like that, they make their departure.

I don’t know why I do it. As soon as I hear the door slam, I tentatively approach Emerson’s brimming tank and sprinkle yet another handful of fish food into it.

I really do hope he explodes.