Meet the Roommates

While it’s true that the Living City of Azza-Jono is jammed to her gills with full-tilt, funhouse mirrors weirdness, there are also a lot of folks who lead boring everyday lives within Her.

Here is a collection of a few of them, roommates of a somewhat bohemian variety who live in a not-so-great flat in a less than sought after part of the City.

Balcone

Tilde heard the knock at the door, followed by the harsh demand: “Open the fuck up!”

A surge of fear rushed through them. They had a pretty good idea who this was and why he was here. So, Tilde closed their bathrobe and went for the door, pausing briefly at the bathroom door, heard the moans from within, and whispered, “He’s here, better finish up.” They carried on for the door, but before they could reach it, it was kicked in.

Darius walked in, pelvis first, gun on his hip, sneer on his lips along. “Where the fuck is she?”

Tilde smiled, folded their arms. “Hello, Darius. I assume this isn’t official secret police business?”

“Everything is fucking official secret police business. In the name of the Chairman, where the fuck is she?”

Before Tilde could respond, Carlijn burst out of the bathroom, naked and covered in sweat, showing much perturbation on her face. She mussed her short blonde hair, then strode, tall and pissed, away from Darius toward the back of the flat.

“Carly! Carly, I just want to talk to you!” Darius shouted, immediately disinterested in Tilde, much to their relief.

Tilde took a pack of AzzAreds out of their robe, lit a smoke, slowly walked to the bathroom. Therein sat Jaye on the john, his big dick still wet from being in Carlijn. They pointed with the smoke and asked jokingly (well, somewhat jokingly), “Want me to top you off?”

Jaye brushed back his bushy, sandy hair, and said softly, “Holy fuck. That was intense. Is he still here?”

“Oh, yeah. He followed her into the bedroom.”

“Should I leave?” he whispered.

“I dunno. He doesn’t seem very interested in you. But maybe finish up and get dressed?”

“I don’t think I can finish.”

Tilde took a drag, smiled.

“Just, gimme a second,” he said, reaching for the doorknob. “I’ll be right out.”

“Don’t rush on my account,” they said and cleared the doorway so Jaye could close the door.

They enjoyed, briefly, imagining him furiously and fearfully beating off very quickly, then cleaning up. Turned them on thinking about it; but they knew there was no way he did, because he came out almost immediately.

Darius walked back out of the bedroom, looking somewhat calmer. He picked up a book from the table, turned it over, read the back. Tilde noticed his lips moving as he read. He tossed it down carelessly, then addressed Jaye: “Jayesh. What’s up, brother?”

“Oh, not much. You know. Just doin’ my thing.”

Darius pointed at the book. “You read this?”

“Huh?” Jaye leaned over but didn’t take a step. “Uh, no. No, I haven’t. I think that’s Tilde’s.”

“Actually, it’s Rosy’s,” Tilde said, then got an ashtray that was a medieval cosplay goblet, ashed in it.

“I thought you quit smokin’,” Darius said.

“Yeah, well, stress.”

“What you got to be stressed about? You’re fine as hell. You got a good girl. Good friends.”

“Oh, let’s see …” Tilde cocked their head to the side, bleach-blonde bangs flopping as they did. “There’s a plague, in the air … the City is Herself sick from it, by the way … there are people rioting in the streets … the planet seems to be prepping to wipe us all from the surface forever … secret police are just busting into people’s houses ...”

Darius waved it all away with a single gust from both hands. “Horseshit. All of it. Shit happens. Life goes on. Things just keep going.”

“Yeah,” Tilde said. “Until they don’t.”

“Can’t happen soon enough, far as I’m concerned,” Darius said. “But I ain’t skinny and pretty like you and Carly.” He looked at the book again, then said, “I’m looking for something to read. Is this any good?”

“I dunno. But what you ought to read is The Stranger by Camus. I think you’d like it.”

“Oh, yeah? Let me check it out.”

Tilde ashed once more, set the goblet down and went over to the bookcase. Their brow furrowed, and they took a drag, said, “Well, shit, Darius. It doesn’t look like it’s here. Maybe I lent it to someone.”

“Stranger by Camus?”

“Yeah.”

“I think I read that one.”

Tilde doubted that. “Really?”

“Gimme another one.”

“Hmm,” they said. “Maybe the Demolished Man. Let me see … god damn it, that one isn’t here either …”

“Just gimme anything, Tilde. I ain’t picky.”

Tilde grabbed a random book off the shelf without even looking and handed it to him.

Darius didn’t look at it either; he just put it in his trench coat pocket, then shouted: “Carly! You ready, baby, let’s go!” Then, he looked out the sliding glass door, to the balcony. “Your balcony still fucked up?”

“Yeah,” Tilde said.

“It was fucking terrible last time I was here and that was months ago.” Darius ambled over to the door, slid it open and looked at the structure. “God damn, this thing is going to fall off, like today! You’ve got to get this fixed.”

“I’ve put in a work request,” Tilde said, finished their smoke, put it out.

“This shit is terrible,” Darius said.

“I might be able to fix it,” Jaye said.

Darius looked at Jaye. “Really? You good with shit like this?”

“I dunno. I built a deck once.”

“Here.” Darius whipped out a cash loaf, peeled off a few bills, dropped them on the coffee table. “Either keep that shit and fix it yourself, or get someone to fix. I don’t give a shit which. But you gotta fix this shit, like, today.”

Tilde and Jaye both nodded, but neither said anything.

Carlijn came out of the bedroom then in an off-the shoulder sweatshirt, blue jeans, and tall black riding boots. Tilde marveled how beautiful she was, even in the most compromising situations. Carlijn was still pouting and didn’t say anything to anyone; she just walked out of the flat.

“God damn, what an ass,” Darius said looking after her; then, to the other two, he said, “Thanks for the book, Tilde. Later, Jaye.”

“No problem,” Tilde said.

“Later,” Jaye said.

“Get that balcony fixed!”

Then Darius left, leaving the broken door hanging from one hinge.

Night Poem

Tilde lay on the bed, smoke between their lips, face lit only by the blue light glow of their smartphone. They popped open the 3110 app and scrolled.

After a minute or two, the notification blot lit up. They touched it, and a smile spread across their lips. They winced, took a drag, read the poem that Daiva had sent them.

“Aw, that’s sweet,” they said aloud.

Rosy snorted in her sleep from the sound, but didn’t wake.

Tilde eyed her sleeping there, then opened their robe, touched their own nipples as they read the poem again, cigarette dangling precariously. Hot ashes fell on their chest, turning them on more, and they set the phone down, touched themselves with both hands on the nipples and genitals; then, stopped, picked the phone up, scrolled some more, finished the smoke, put the phone down, and went to sleep.

A Little Vacation for Tilde and Rosy

Tilde and Rosy got a share on the top floor of the southeast quad wing of a posh mansionetta in the Gilded District. It was, the two of them had agreed, a reward for having survived the month of fire without dying or killing anyone or each other, putting up with Carly’s diva pretty-girl-world drama, and having been solid denizens by following quarantine protocols. The science was still out on whether the plague was gone or not, but almost everyone they knew was acting like it was over, and so they, too, were getting out again.

Up the fine stairs on the left was the room they rented. Across the small landing, on the right at the top of the stairs, was a couple a bit older than they were, maybe in their forties, who had two kids.

“Aw, hell,” Tilde whispered to Rosy. “They’ve got kids.”

“So? What’s wrong with that?” Rosy asked, setting down the luggage.

“It’s totally gonna cramp my style.”

Rosy frowned and furrowed her brow. “How?”

“I was planning on being, like, totally nude the whole time we’re here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Til. You can still be naked, just close the door.”

Tilde smirked, fished out a cigarette, and lit up. “Where’s the fun in that?”

The couple, they soon learned, were Jonovian-Azzines, something like three generations. Also Italian. And were, to Tilde’s eye, quite attractive. The woman in particular, who was tall with unshaved legs, underarm bush, and a very fine moustache. She dressed like one of those outdoorsy dykes, Tilde thought. She had long, frizzy black hair and a big personality. The guy had shortish curly black hair, was shorter than his wife, and was fit. Tilde looked at his shorts and estimated his dick, nodded to themselves that they could probably take that in the ass no problem. Rosy hadn’t been super into swinging lately, though, so it might be a bit of struggle to get her into it. She was being a little possessive after the whole Daiva debacle, Tilde thought, so she probably wouldn’t be cool with Tilde getting their unicorn on, either.

Tilde exhaled smoke, thinking about it all, nude on the white sheets of their rented bed. “Why’s everything so goddamn complicated?”

In the Still of the Night

Blue light filtered into the room, casting Matilde in shadow and cyan. The clacking of the typewriter keys pounded her temples like tiny hammers, held by invisible gnomes.

Tilde stopped typing, took a drag from the AzzAred Midnight cigarette resting in the brown crystal ashtray sat on the steel top of the hutch they’d repurposed as a desk in the vacant room in the apartment, the one Carly had lived in.

This sucks, Tilde thought, and typed that as what Matilde was thinking, too.

Many nights were spent like this: Matilde pluck pluck plucking away on the old manual typewriter, topless and in granny panties, cigarette dangling from her lips that were starting to show lines from sucking too much, growing darker hair in denser quantities there.

Tilde really didn’t know why it mattered, writing. Or being a writer, regarded as a writer. But it did, and not only was it one of her singular matters in life, it was one of her few genuine refuges, aside from sex and love, neither of which was she really getting much of from Engy … and hadn’t for some time now.

They took another drag, set the cigarette back in the ashtray, watching the famous burgundy paper burn down, turning to gray ash cake.

That’s a bit harsh, Tilde thought, and typed that as Matilde’s assessment, too.

Engy was, after all, a person, too. She wasn’t a sex worker or even a fuck buddy; she was her wife, and provided the main means of income. It wasn’t easy being a writer, let alone an obscure one.

Tilde shook their head, corrected the type on ‘obscure’ and replaced it with ‘unknown’ and carried on.

Truthfully, she was a total nobody, a zero. Her family was mostly dead. Her brother was a deadbeat and an addict (in that order, not the other way around, which she thought was deadly important), and her little sister was a fucking bitch sorority ho.

With a huge sigh, Tilde scratched their pubic mound, then smelled their fingers, winced, took another drag, adjusted their huge glasses, batted their wild, bleached hair away and over the rims.

She was lonely. That was the flat of it. She’d had a brief affair with her roommate, Syken, who had a terribly possessive boyfriend who worked for the secret police. Syken was extraordinarily beautiful, like model-pretty, and very selfish, vain, and childish. She was very smart, though, and Matilde and she had had many wonderful nights together, naked and covered in sweat from hours of fucking, then discussing books and films and philosophy. Syken was very individualistic in her outlook, believing people are as they choose to be, whereas Matilde was more deterministic, seeing humans as mostly the products of their circumstances. They would argue about it and sometimes it would get heated, then Syken would just kiss Matilde and they would make love again.

Tilde stopped and reconsidered this.

Well, they would fuck again. Matilde was making love, but Syken was clearly fucking. It was super hot, true, for both of them that they were cheating on their significant others right under their noses, and that they would sometimes then have sex with their partners still wet from each other. But Matilde really felt a connection with Syken, and so it was obvious to her that Syken did not feel the same way.

“But wait,” Tilde said aloud, to the empty room, “I thought I said she wasn’t having sex with Engy.”

Another sigh, another drag—this one killing that particular cigarette and prompting the immediate lighting of another.

Then Matilde could see it, suddenly, like a flash of lightning insight. She wrote mostly to keep herself company, intellectually and sexually. She wrote to get herself turned on, dripping ready and ready to fuck, ready to love, then she would make love to herself through her own imagination, a victimless affair that sustained her, albeit the way one might survive by slowing eating their own skin, hair, and urine.

“Gross,” they said, then flicked some ash.

If ever there were to be any hope of feeling love for Engy again, they would have to make love. They often had decent talks—not like the ones with Syken, but that was all right—and lived very well together as domestic partners. They were a bit of a lesbian cliché, though, and perhaps always had been. So many lezzers are, she thought, and so few seem to care in one sense but are rather hopelessly adrift about it in another.

The door to the room that had been Carly’s room opened. Rosy came in.

“Still up?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Tilde said. “What time is it?”

“Like six.”

“Fuck,” Tilde said, dragging out the word, then letting their head fall down until their chin touched their chest.

“But, hey, you got to write, right?”

Tilde nodded but didn’t lift their head. “Yeah. Yay for that.”

A Single Suitcase

Rosy was at work, Carly was out of town with Jayesh, leaving Tilde alone in the flat. They lit up an AzzAred Light and sat on the end of the bed, naked but for a sheer bathrobe and pasties from the night before. They knew it was bad to sleep with them on, but they were too drunk and high to give a fuck when they hit the bed and too sleepy to care just then.

On the floor sat a suitcase. It was a trendy French dealie that Rosy’s aunt had given them at their commitment ceremony something like five years ago.

“Fuck, has it really been that long already?” Tilde said aloud to the otherwise empty room.

They reached down and rubbed their genitals some, not to proper orgasm, but enough to get a little turned on and have some energy; then, they stood, groaned, and hobbled over to the typewriter.

The click-clack of the keys drew their mind away from the pains of the body, the fog of the ordinary mind, into the tubular surf of the flow of writing.

They wrote:

They say Sartre could fit all his possessions in a suitcase. What would that be like?

After the cig burned out, they lit another. With casual indiscretion they pulled off one of the pasties, exhaling two long streams of smoke as they did. There was only a bit of pain, and it made the nipple erect. Tilde looked around as if anyone could see them alone in their room, then brought the nipple to their lips and licked it, sucked on it some, moaning as they did. If anyone had seen them, they would have been dreadfully embarrassed—ashamed, maybe—and if someone were to even learn that they’d done it, there would be some amount of cringe. But they convinced themselves this was impossible. And besides, they did it all the time, anyway, so who cares?

They returned to writing:

I for one cannot really conceive of it. Just the mere notion fills me with panic. It’s not taht …

They cursed and went back over it with corrector.

… that I have a shitload of personal possessions and none which I would call ‘prized’ so much as I derive some baseline level of comfort from having stuff around me.

So why must it properly be ‘my’ stuff? Wouldn’t the spartan furnishings of a hotel room suffice? It’s true that I’ve always found a mysterious, quasi-mystical property within hotels and their contents, but this would not sustain me for long.

I recall staying in a hotel when my family and I moved to Azza in 1999. It quickly lost its charms and became a shitty apartment, one that was unfortunately adjoining to my parents’ shitty apartment.

The kitchen, for one thing. There isn’t one, you know. It’s a coffee pot, and not a very good one at that.

“Oh fuck, I haven’t any coffee,” Tilde remarked through the smoke pluming up and around their glasses.

They got up and went to the kitchen, made some coffee. Carly had consumed all the best pods, as she was wont to do, so Tilde was left with the mid-tier shit that they got from Costco.

“Pretty girls, pretty girls,” Tilde said absently, wiping out the Keurig.

AJ 0004