Almost As Much As I Love Pickles
Chapter One: You Just Macraméd Yourself Into The Sofa
03142007 – 0210P
I hate pickles. My boyfriend thinks I'm weird for that but I really, really hate them. They're like… eww. I don't even like to touch them through the jar.
I guess the reason I'm telling you this is to explain why I was currently standing about ten feet away from aisle five, peering down the way and grimacing as my best friend (who also happened to be one of my roommates) picked up a jar of the cursed things and walked swiftly back to me and—
"No!" I shrieked, pulling my buggy away from him as fast as I could and consequently hitting a large display of Cap'n Crunch. Thank god the boxes didn't fall.
"What the hell is your problem?" Angel demanded, putting his hands on his hips. Well, one hand. The other was holding the jar. Eww…
"Those nasty things are not going in my cart," I sputtered, staring at him like he was insane.
"Whatever, Eli, let's go," he sighed, tossing the plastic jar into my cart.
"Nasty! Angel! My Oreos are in there! Now they're all contaminated with pickle jar germs!" I squealed, rushing after him as he started to walk away.
"Big deal," he called back. "You need to lay off the cookies, anyway. You're getting fat."
I gasped, stopping abruptly and pointing incriminatingly at him.
"You, sir, are a liar," I said. He rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, yeah. Say what you want, but I notice you aren't fitting into those two hundred dollar designer jeans that you just had to have."
"I am, too, fitting into them! But they're so out of style right now. Kind of like… well, everything about you."
"Whatever, Tubby," he sighed. "Let's pay for your lard and get back to the apartment."
My roommates, Angel, Damyon, and Ricky, were all extremely good looking. Angel had soft auburn hair and brown eyes, and he stood at about six-foot-three, one hundred and sixty pounds. And he had the audacity to call himself fat every now and then. But he was just fishing for compliments, a practice that annoys me greatly. And to top that off, he was a slut. I swear he was the man that gave gay guys a bad name. But regardless, he was beautiful.
Damyon was the classic tall, dark, and handsome. He had black hair and dark eyes set against peachy skin. He had a strong build and a cool expression fixed on his face that could melt many a heart. He was slightly shorter than Angel but more solidly built. He was too serious for my tastes, but as a friend he was indispensable. He always had my back.
Then there was my boyfriend, Ricky. He was perfect, everything about him was just so… right. He shadowed my five-foot-six frame at an even six feet, and he was toned and tanned and just… perfect. His wavy brown hair fell into his face and his green eyes lit up when he laughed, which he did often.
And then there's me. Not a lot to be excited about. Like I said, I'm five-foot-six and a whopping one hundred and fifty-three pounds, mousy coloured hair, gray eyes, and a body like a small boy rather than the adult I am. At twenty-three, I look like a prepubescent teenager. Naturally it's embarrassing at times, living with all of these perfect people.
But they treat me like I'm one of them, and it's nice. I like that when we're alone they don't say anything about our differences, and when we're out I'm the envy of all the other "others", you know, the not-so-beautiful people.
It's nice. Because the way they look at me is exactly the way I look at Ricky and them.
AN: This is a rough first chappy, I know. But it's mainly just to give you a general idea of the characters and Eli's mindset. So yeah…
Um, please stick around for the next one! I promise it will be better!
♥'s and X-Rated Thoughts—Luci