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Cinnamon turns the TV on at the foot of her bed. “What do you want to watch?”
John leans forward, setting his empty bowl on her desk.
At least you could wash it. No fucking manners. Who does this man think he is?
“Surprise me.”
Cinnamon giggles. “You’re going to regret that.” And then she flicks on a show.
Food Wars!
She takes a few more bites before placing her bowl in his.
I don’t like that.
She adjusts in the bed, under the blanket and pats the spot beside her. “I want to be comfy.”
I especially don’t like that.
He doesn’t hesitate before crawling in beside her.
I fucking hate that.
My hands curl into fists. The anger beneath my skin turns into buzzing mosquitos biting me each time John breathes.
And then while I’m still trapped in this tiny closet, they watch the show…
***
What the actual fuck is this? Porn?
The high-pitched moaning and squealing coming from the screen as the characters eat food has left a lasting impression.
Even from here, I can see John’s ears are tinged pink, and his pants are tenting, but Cinnamon is gesturing to the TV.
“See how good that looks? I want to recreate some of these meals. I bet it would be so tasty.”
And I believe her. I haven’t had a single bite of her food, but I just know.
John mumbles back, and I am acutely angry that he isn’t feeding the flames of her excitement.
Cinnamon’s phone buzzes, and she picks it up. “Oh shit! It’s getting late, you must have a busy day tomorrow.” She clicks off the TV, leaving the pair in shadows.
“I—yeah, this was fun,” John remarks, his form getting up from the bed.
Cinnamon can’t see what he does from where she is, but I watch as he walks to the lone kitchen table, as he stuffs the piece of paper on it into his pocket.
What in the actual fuck is that?
Who is this man?
I had already researched the tenants on her floor.
Bran Fiber, the man next door who wouldn’t leave her alone. The one who had a clear habit of breaking the law. And an even worse habit he really needed to kick. Who I would most likely need to deal with sooner than later.
Miss Clementine, the older woman across the hall, who owned at least two dozen cats and was a retired school teacher with two wild granddaughters that frequented our clubs. One who even worked at Reuben’s restaurant.
John Smith. He was the mystery. He was the one in her house. The one stealing a piece of paper off a table. I found he was a detective, but other than that, his background was cloudy, a mystery I couldn’t get answers on… At least not yet.
