Samantha
I sprinted across the room to turn off the gas. The pungent smoke of ash pricked my nose, gray smoke pushed its way out of the oven, masking my view partially. Coughing as I bat the smoke away, my eyes watered against the stench. Pulling on the steel handle I opened the oven door--gray smoke gushed out to reveal the art it was garnishing--fourteen-euro worth of chicken thighs lay sprawled in the tray, blackened by the prolonged heat.
Let me place a pro tip, never rush when you’re cooking. I've learnt that the hard way as the burn seeped through the skin of my fingers, panic had made me pull out the dish from the stove without the damn gloves .
Ouch !
The tray dropped with a bang against the oven, and mock blowing on the burnt fingers, I slipped into the gloves. The food was in waste, I deduced, as I pulled the tray out and kept it on the kitchen counter. It had burnt completely and reeked of ashes as the spices popped out mocking black beads. I frowned at the sight.
The teary eyes snapped towards my window, curtained, closed tight, yet banging against the loud beats that followed the house next door. Hysteria mangled me as I stomped towards my room's window. Control was a gone case. Pulling away the curtain and pushing my windows open, I screamed, “Can you stop your shitty music?!”
No one answered. The disturbing beats of loud music drummed in my brain, ticking my level of tolerance down.
If he isn’t answering within the next seven beats, I am breaking down his window.
One .
Two .
Three .
Four .
Five .
The music stopped. Silence. Absolute silence. How eery was felt the silence to my senses considering it was my safe space, a few days ago.
I couldn’t place what had made the devil cease his act and before I could act further, the window was barged open, and there he stood. Time faltered, his whiteish hair rumbled against the windy evenings of Grasmere, the crimson yellow of the sky shone against his skin. He appeared to be taken by surprise, his nose quickly turning a pretty pink under the dusking sun.
So, this is who had shifted here the previous week; the entire town was thrown into murmurs praising his "good looks" and "sweet attitude"-"Sam, baby, did you see the man who's new in town?" had said Cathy, pulling out a tray of freshly baked bagels from the oven. "Not yet" I had said and she had turned baby pink on suggesting that I should and have to meet him as soon as possible. It's true, no matter how wrong I look as a neighbour who doesn't visit her newly arrived neighbour in the two days he's arrived, I had my reasons. I had an extra shift at the Grasmere Gingerbread Shop , filling in for George as he had left the town for the hospital where his pregnant wife was up for labor. Don't get me wrong, working here is absolute bliss with my coworkers being angels, but life had held me off of a chance to meet my neighbour. I work on the weekends here, which is about 20 minutes away from my place, and I was filling in for George the same day I was supposed to show up in a formal greeting at the door next house. However, my intentions all vanished when I returned that evening after work, exhausted to find blasting music from the window next door. after a day's work, after driving around towns to get to my classes, working jobs to pay my bills, I return to this corner, where I read for thirty minutes, every day, biting on my light supper or sipping my coffee. It is safe to say that that is gone. The serene quiet atmosphere had vanished, like it never existed, filled with pop music, in every corner of my room, drumming against the surfaces.
My personal place was breached.
Keeping in mind, he’s new here, and that the small population of people living in Grasmere lived with love and respect, I ignored and slept with a headache that night. I would show up at his door, just not today.
This continued as I could hear the beats drum into my brain long before my car could turn the corner to my garage, the next evening as well. I had suppressed my growing rage within and had tried to live through with it. Not being able to read peacefully since that evening, my nerves were agitated. I just needed one ignition to blast back at the man. And lucky for the situation, I hadn't had my formal visit yet. Classes are to resume next week, and I had a ton of work to get over with, above that imagine having along day and then come home to have a long night. I had to do something about it, this week .
Well, now, I stand on my window, inches away from the window next door, as the man with his irritatingly attractive hazel eyes, looks at me. I had saved up some money and had got myself some fresh Jamaican Chicken thighs for 14 euros from the Vine House Farm Shop , traveling for a whole five hours. I’m a big fan of their Jamaican thighs and bringing them in, cooking them leisurely at home and enjoying them in the chilly weather of Grasmere, in December, was what made the long journey worth it. having a day off tomorrow, I had worked half-day to go get them, which presently stand inedible, on my kitchen counter.
But all the rage evaporated as those hazel eyes, as confused as I was, stood against mine. The mob didn't lie when they said he was gorgeous. His hair was so blonde, that it appeared almost white. saved by the orange hue of the closing day, his locks, messy around his head, scattered against his face, somehow looked perfect. He had hollows in his cheek that gave way to his dimples as he smiled, a smile as breathtaking as ever, his eyes disappearing almost on the impact.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” he said leaning against the window frame, cocking an eyebrow, the smile withered into a smirk.
“You are disrupting the quiet of the locality." I steered, finding my voice after what felt like hours of quiet.
He ruffled his hair with his fingers, his nails painted black, distracting me from the topic. Putting his head on his huge palms, looking straight at me, "Am I?" said he, his lips pursed.
Is he mocking me?
Betraying my mind, warm tingles followed my neck to my cheeks, and I looked away trying to conceal the fact that his tactics affect me.
He’s the reason you can’t read peacefully through the evenings, anymore, reminded my mind.
It was right. It always is. I folded my arms and stood straight, looking back at him, though my cheeks flared with warmth.
“I knew I wouldn't like you.” I said, curtly.
What felt like a surprise on his face vanished before a second could complete itself, "Ouch-Why's that?”
I rolled my eyes, The wind felt cold against my skin, as I placed a hand on my hips.
"Your pop music sits like a cat in between a group of Elephants;" said as my fingers pointed at him, "I guess I can allow you a chance this time against my better judgement, considering you are new here, but if you don't abide by the rules, then I am going to report you..." I paused; I didn’t know his name.
“Noah Walker.” as if reading my mind, he answered. That's when I noticed, he now leaned against the window frame, his eyes taking me in, arms folded against his broad structure, a ghost of a smile dancing against his lips. Embarrassment [or was it a blush(?)] coloured me as I turned away, my ears hot.
“Whatever. I burnt my thighs for you” I slapped my mouth shut, but late it was. the damage was done.
“I-I mean my chicken thighs.” I said, I could visualize the steam leaving from behind my head as my ears boiled against the situation.
He tilted his head back and laughed, heartily. Loud, clear, melodious . If there was something better than music then this was it, but apparently as much as I loved it, I still hated this man and his actions.
“I am so sorry for laughing, but that was a good way to impose the first impression.”
What?
“I am not trying to create any impression on you." I declared, "It would be better if you shut down the music.”
“Not happening.” He said, his expressions un-wavered.
“At least lower down the base if that makes you feel better.", my brows furrowed, "You are disturbing my peace."
“And I don’t care.” He said, mocking my tone.
Is this guy serious. I must have been stupid to find him gorgeous; he's the ugliest man ever, if anything. That was it. I threw the cooking spoon I had in my hands all this while, at him, not quite sure why, though it wasn't even a piece of cake for him to dodge it.
The spoon slid behind him to fall on the floor with a thud. “Improve your throwing skills, Rosy.”
Rosy?
“Who?"
“You. Never seen a lady turning red so many times, within five minutes, so the name.” he said and shrugged. Shrugged like it didn't matter, as if naming stranger women was his thing.
infuriating as much as it was, he was right, no man had seen me in so many emotions this quick. Involuntarily, as they always are, another blush creeps over my skin, painting my freckled shoulders and nose a vibrant pink.
Hysterically again, I said, “You’re not calling me that, or anything, and you better stop that music, or I’ll make sure to break your window, the next time,”
I said and pulled the curtains back. Fatigue gripped me, all hunger gone. I hate this guy.
“I promise I will try, Rosy .”, from behind the window, came his voice, buttering up on the name, slow, lathered, intentional.
I swiftly flung the curtains away to find the music back on and so were the curtains.
So, this is my life now.