Magnets
Late Night
“Malin, for the nth freaking time, I’m not interested in that stupid hockey game!” Annie yelled from the small apartment’s kitchen. “I don’t care if the players are hot!”
Malin, the twenty-year-old’s housemate, released an exasperated groan. “You’ve never even watched a game, Annie! You can’t call it stupid if you haven’t seen one!”
Annie sighed, and went back to what she’d been doing before the argument had started, which had been throwing a bowl of leftover pasta in the microwave to heat it up a little. Honestly, she couldn’t care less if she’d never watched a hockey game. She flat-out didn’t like the sport; she thought it was senseless and barbaric – a silly game for simple-minded people.
So, it annoyed Annie that her housemate was such a big fan of the game. Malin was anything BUT simple-minded. There were several other things that she could have interest in – intelligent things. Why did she have to take interest in ice hockey?
She sighed again, set the microwave timer for two minutes, then wandered into the living room. She found Malin sitting cross-legged on their couch, watching the game with a look of complete rapture on her face, her dark green eyes darting back and forth across the TV screen as fast as the players darted across the ice. She wore a jersey that looked nearly 3 sizes too big for her, a black and yellow ribbon in her hair, and… well, anything Malin had that was black and yellow, really.
Which was practically everything in her wardrobe.
Annie snorted. “You’re obsessed, you know that?”
“I’m not obsessed; I’m dedicated,” Malin replied, her eyes still glued to the screen in front of her. “There’s a HUGE difference.”
Annie was about to reply, but Malin started barking at the TV before she had the chance to. “C’mon Marchy, carry that puck! Take it up! Take it up!”
Two seconds later, a squeal exploded from her. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” she cheered as she flailed her arm in a triumphant bolo punch. “Woo-hoo Marchand! Yeah, baby!”
Malin gave a loud whoop, and Annie winced and glared at her. “Seriously Mal, do you have to do that?”
“Uh, yeah! Marchy just put the Bruins on the board! You’re lucky I’m not screaming at the TV right now!”
Damn right, she was lucky. Annie was pretty sure she would’ve smacked Malin if she’d even thought about screaming at the TV. She put up with enough of her friend’s obsession already; there was no way in hell that she was going to put up with that, too.
Annie shook her head, heaved a short sigh. “Mal, I love you to death, but I don’t get you sometimes.”
“Yeah, likewise,” Malin retorted. “I mean, this is your home hockey team, the pride of Boston and all that shit! How do you not like these guys?”
Annie, not in the mood to engage in the same conversation they’d had since moving in together, exhaled in relief when the microwave timer suddenly sounded. “Food’s ready,” she said, then all but ran out of the living room and into the kitchen. Thank god the timer had gone off when it did. A second or two later and she might’ve been stuck listening to Malin rant about why she should “give hockey a chance and quit being such a crabass, it’s a cool sport, Marchy and Quaider are super-hot, blah blah blah,” like she’d done countless times before. It was getting old, Annie was getting tired of it, and she wanted to get out before she got sucked in.
She stood on her tiptoes, grabbed her dinner from the microwave, then hopped up on the counter and spooned pasta into her mouth, staring absent-mindedly at the calendar pinned to the soft gray wall across from her. Tomorrow was Saturday, which meant she was taking her students through technique, pointe shoe work, and a run-through of their piece for the spring recital in May.
Wait – Annie was teaching tomorrow – and it was an early morning class. Shit, she completely forgot about that.
She looked at the clock on the stove – 10:29 p.m. Class was supposed to start at 6:45 tomorrow morning. That meant she’d need to get up at around 5:00, maybe 4:45 to be safe. If her math was right, she’d need an hour to get up, clean up, and get her gear squared away, fifteen minutes to grab her coffee from the Starbucks on Court Street, and another fifteen minutes to actually get to the studio – and that’s if the traffic wasn’t bad. If it was, then it would take almost a half-hour to get there.
It was 10:30 p.m. now, and Annie was looking at a 5 a.m. wake-up.
Jesus, why the hell was she still awake?
After scarfing down the rest of her dinner, Annie headed for the stairs. “Hey Malin,” she called out, “keep the volume low, would you?”
“You’re not goin’ to bed yet, are you? The game’s not even over!”
Annie rolled her eyes. Christ, here we go again…
“I don’t care if it’s over or not. I’ve got a seven o’clock class with my eleven-year-olds, which means a five o’clock wake-up. I need the sleep, otherwise those girls aren’t going to have much of a teacher tomorrow.”
“But Annie-”
“G’night Malin.”
Then, Annie climbed the stairs, changed and cleaned up, climbed into bed, and fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.
Malin, the twenty-year-old’s housemate, released an exasperated groan. “You’ve never even watched a game, Annie! You can’t call it stupid if you haven’t seen one!”
Annie sighed, and went back to what she’d been doing before the argument had started, which had been throwing a bowl of leftover pasta in the microwave to heat it up a little. Honestly, she couldn’t care less if she’d never watched a hockey game. She flat-out didn’t like the sport; she thought it was senseless and barbaric – a silly game for simple-minded people.
So, it annoyed Annie that her housemate was such a big fan of the game. Malin was anything BUT simple-minded. There were several other things that she could have interest in – intelligent things. Why did she have to take interest in ice hockey?
She sighed again, set the microwave timer for two minutes, then wandered into the living room. She found Malin sitting cross-legged on their couch, watching the game with a look of complete rapture on her face, her dark green eyes darting back and forth across the TV screen as fast as the players darted across the ice. She wore a jersey that looked nearly 3 sizes too big for her, a black and yellow ribbon in her hair, and… well, anything Malin had that was black and yellow, really.
Which was practically everything in her wardrobe.
Annie snorted. “You’re obsessed, you know that?”
“I’m not obsessed; I’m dedicated,” Malin replied, her eyes still glued to the screen in front of her. “There’s a HUGE difference.”
Annie was about to reply, but Malin started barking at the TV before she had the chance to. “C’mon Marchy, carry that puck! Take it up! Take it up!”
Two seconds later, a squeal exploded from her. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” she cheered as she flailed her arm in a triumphant bolo punch. “Woo-hoo Marchand! Yeah, baby!”
Malin gave a loud whoop, and Annie winced and glared at her. “Seriously Mal, do you have to do that?”
“Uh, yeah! Marchy just put the Bruins on the board! You’re lucky I’m not screaming at the TV right now!”
Damn right, she was lucky. Annie was pretty sure she would’ve smacked Malin if she’d even thought about screaming at the TV. She put up with enough of her friend’s obsession already; there was no way in hell that she was going to put up with that, too.
Annie shook her head, heaved a short sigh. “Mal, I love you to death, but I don’t get you sometimes.”
“Yeah, likewise,” Malin retorted. “I mean, this is your home hockey team, the pride of Boston and all that shit! How do you not like these guys?”
Annie, not in the mood to engage in the same conversation they’d had since moving in together, exhaled in relief when the microwave timer suddenly sounded. “Food’s ready,” she said, then all but ran out of the living room and into the kitchen. Thank god the timer had gone off when it did. A second or two later and she might’ve been stuck listening to Malin rant about why she should “give hockey a chance and quit being such a crabass, it’s a cool sport, Marchy and Quaider are super-hot, blah blah blah,” like she’d done countless times before. It was getting old, Annie was getting tired of it, and she wanted to get out before she got sucked in.
She stood on her tiptoes, grabbed her dinner from the microwave, then hopped up on the counter and spooned pasta into her mouth, staring absent-mindedly at the calendar pinned to the soft gray wall across from her. Tomorrow was Saturday, which meant she was taking her students through technique, pointe shoe work, and a run-through of their piece for the spring recital in May.
Wait – Annie was teaching tomorrow – and it was an early morning class. Shit, she completely forgot about that.
She looked at the clock on the stove – 10:29 p.m. Class was supposed to start at 6:45 tomorrow morning. That meant she’d need to get up at around 5:00, maybe 4:45 to be safe. If her math was right, she’d need an hour to get up, clean up, and get her gear squared away, fifteen minutes to grab her coffee from the Starbucks on Court Street, and another fifteen minutes to actually get to the studio – and that’s if the traffic wasn’t bad. If it was, then it would take almost a half-hour to get there.
It was 10:30 p.m. now, and Annie was looking at a 5 a.m. wake-up.
Jesus, why the hell was she still awake?
After scarfing down the rest of her dinner, Annie headed for the stairs. “Hey Malin,” she called out, “keep the volume low, would you?”
“You’re not goin’ to bed yet, are you? The game’s not even over!”
Annie rolled her eyes. Christ, here we go again…
“I don’t care if it’s over or not. I’ve got a seven o’clock class with my eleven-year-olds, which means a five o’clock wake-up. I need the sleep, otherwise those girls aren’t going to have much of a teacher tomorrow.”
“But Annie-”
“G’night Malin.”
Then, Annie climbed the stairs, changed and cleaned up, climbed into bed, and fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.
cant wait for the update!!! :)
5/12/14