THE FIGHT OVER THE MESS

"We are? Did you clean up my puke? Did you carry my ass upstairs? Did you change my clothes? Did..."


"What?" I exclaim.

He cocks his head at me, making my eyes dart to my body. Blue linen shorts and a pink tee. Last I remember, I was wearing a pair of short jeans and a black tee. Oh, my drunk self!

Shit!


Triple shit!

Did he change my clothes? Ooh, man! Can this get any more embarrassing?


"I will fix breakfast for us," he mutters, turning his back on me as he starts his business.

Now I feel totally ashamed. Like, why the freaking hell did I not check myself and ask myself some questions before leaving my room? I should get the fuck out of his house now. This minute. I have even overstayed my welcome, and things are really getting messed up and out of control.

"Is the pain fading away?" He queries me, not sparing me a glance.

He must be really pissed off, and I can't blame him. I can't even get along with him well to start with, and on top of that, well, see what I just did last night. Who would want to have this dumb crap in the name of Ellie at his house, huh? No freaking sane creature!

"Yes," I say, and he doesn't say anything else. He concentrates on his eggs and whatnot, acting like there is no one around him.

I stand on my feet. I feel terrible that a stranger took me in, and I can't do anything to help. At least I should try and show a little appreciation, something to paint my stinging picture before I leave. Some sort of thank-you sign. Anything.

"I want to help," I mumble, standing beside him.

I thought he wanted to fry the eggs, but I was damn wrong. I am yet to know what he wants to make with all these ingredients. Is he a chef or something?

"No need. Besides, do you even know how to hold a knife or chop onions?" He asks, looking deep into my eyes. The sarcasm, though!

Damn! Does he have to be so hard on me? It's not like I didn't want to learn! And the fact that I offered to help should cut me some slack.

"You don't need to be so harsh," I mumble, the words barely escaping my lips as I watch him turn away.

"Sorry, but I am okay, really," he starts to say, his voice trailing off as he avoids my gaze.

I roll my eyes at his dismissive attitude, frustration bubbling within me. "Please!" I plead, desperation evident in my tone, but all I receive in return is a stern stare from him.

I had hoped that my plea would elicit some sort of change in him, perhaps a softening of his demeanor, but alas, nothing of the sort occurred. It seems he's reached his limit with me.

"I said I was good," he insists, his voice firm and resolute.

"I know, Damian! But I want to help. Do you need water? Or sugar? More spices? Salt? Anything I can get for you?" I implore, a sense of urgency creeping into my words as I try to break through his barriers.

Whoa! No, what on earth is happening to me? Why do I feel like crying just because an arrogant jerk does not want me to help? Sha! Jeez! I quite ranted right there, sounding like a desperate bitch. The shock on his face shows just how much I have shocked the hell out of him.

I take a deep breath and look at him with my most sincere, pleading look. "Please, Damian. I know you are angry, and you have all the right to be. At least let me make myself useful to show my appreciation for your kindness. I will leave to go look for a house after breakfast so that I can mess up more than I have already done. Please?" I finish begging, and he looks at me as if I were singing a lullaby.

A smile? Really? "I am not angry, Ellie, and you ought not to be in a hurry to leave. Nobody is chasing you out. And about you helping, you don't need to do anything. At least you kept me company. I am used to doing this, honestly."

"Cooking or having guests?" I mumble out of the blue, the words slipping from my lips before I can stop them.

Something must be seriously off in my head for me to blurt out such a random question. I'll have to examine that later. I feel like I'm losing my mind, yet here he is, smiling instead of throwing me out of his house. His patience astounds me.

"I meant cooking. I'm used to cooking for myself. I don't usually have guests here, so you can relax," he says with a wink, his expression hinting at amusement, perhaps at my expense, since I had no business asking such a question in the first place.

I nod my head and remain standing here, making a mental note to be mindful of what I ask. It is none of my business to know how many bimbos he brings into his house. I am a guest, and snooping that much is unacceptable. I wonder why he is so patient with my messed-up, weird self.

"Wait, I think I will take up your offer. Why don't you help me set the table?" He says it after a minute, making me almost leap with ecstasy.

It is not what I asked for, but at least I can do something instead of perching myself here like a lifeless object. "Alright!"

I can feel his eyes on me as I start on my task, but I don't dare look in his direction. He must be wondering what sort of creature I am with all these mischiefs. But if he really was sick of me, he would have asked me to leave his house, right?