Sarah Mlynowski - Fishbowl

“Got it.”

“I bet I get a crazy raise.” Clint’s favorite adjective is crazy. He sprinkles it in every sentence he can.

“Didn’t you just get a raise?”

He started his marketing job right after we graduated and is already some kind of office hotshot. “Yeah. But since I come up with the craziest ideas, I should be compensated, huh?”

“I’m shocked you’re not VP by now. Maybe next week they’ll make you CEO.”

This whole “attitude” thing is pretty new for Clint. He struggled to keep a B average at school, and was always better at criticizing other people’s athletic abilities than showcasing any of his own. He dated a bit, but not the girls he talked about. And then out of nowhere he got a prime marketing job (possibly through one of his dad’s connections, but that doesn’t mean he’s not qualified), and he now has this whole “big man on campus” attitude going on.

“C’mon.” I grab the piece of his shirt near his wrist (there’s not too much spare material around the chest area anymore) and pull him into my room. How many girls dream about walking into their bedrooms with a guy who looks like this? Hah! And he’s here!

He picks up the freshly arranged yellow pillows one by one and drops them onto the floor. Then he kicks off his shoes and sprawls across my bed. Reaching over, he picks up one of the pillows and squashes it against the wall to prop up his head.

Hmm. Where should I sit? On the corner of the bed? By his feet? Should I lie down? Sprawl next to him? It is my bed. There’s nothing obvious about me sitting on my own bed, is there? Will he think, Wow, it’s so obvious she invited me over because she’s so desperate and no one else wants her? Will he think, I definitely don’t want her and that’s why she’s lying so pathetically on her bed, to make me want her? Will he also think (God forbid), She even moved the living room television into her room so I have no choice but to fool around with her?

I sit on the computer chair.

Swivel.

“Your hair got so blond from the sun!” I say.

He smiles sheepishly. “I highlighted it last week. Do you like it?”

Are men supposed to highlight? “It looks great. Very California. Do you want to know what you missed so far?”

“I can figure it out.”

Oh. Okay.

Twenty minutes later, I’m starting to wish the show were on regular cable, not Extra, so it had commercials through which we could talk. Although if it were on regular TV, he wouldn’t be here, now would he?

Why did I choose the swivel chair? Why why why? Should I make him something to eat? Is he hungry? He’s probably hungry. “Do you want some popcorn?”

“Sure. Thanks. You’re such a sweetheart.”

My heart fully stops. A sweetheart. I am a sweetheart. Men marry women they think are sweethearts. Reason Number One why he should fall in love with me: I am a sweetheart.

Reason Number Two is that I make great popcorn. I do. In the kitchen, I pull out my fancy popcorn maker that goes on the stove, and the real butter.

As soon as I set up the popcorn I peek my head into my room so that I can follow what’s going on. I hate missing my shows. Which is a problem because I have a lot of favorite shows and no VCR to speak of. Now that I’m out of school, I can watch TV all day, which is fab, but I miss the prime times because during the week my shift is at night. This isn’t as annoying as in the summer when it’s repeat season, but soon all the new shows will be on and I’m going to miss them.

Making popcorn is definitely a good call. I’ll be expected to share some of it, which means I’ll have to be on the bed, too. We’ll be lying right next to each other, our hands delicately grazing each other’s in the salad bowl, since Rebecca took the popcorn bowl with her when she left.

What’s taking so long? Standing here by the door is starting to hurt my legs. But I know that as soon as I sit down, it will start to pop, and I’ll have to get up again. C’mon, popcorn, please hurry. The show will be over by the time it’s ready. Although that might not be such a terrible thing. It will force him to stay longer.

Pop. Pop pop pop. It’s almost ready. Pop. FINALLY. Ready.

“Thanks, hon,” he says without lifting his eyes from the television. I love when he calls me hon. You don’t call someone you have no feelings for, hon, right? I oh-so-casually slide onto the bed.

He reaches for the popcorn. Our hands touch in the bowl. His fingers linger. Is he thinking about sneaking his hands under my sexy shirt? And then gently kissing me, and then passionately kissing me and then taking off all my clothes, lying on top of me and pressing his hard broad-shouldered musky-yummy-smelling body into mine? Is the fan on?

He stuffs a fistful of kernels into his mouth.

“What did I miss?” I ask.

He rambles about some sort of murder and “crazy fight scene.” Can’t really concentrate. Clint is in my room. Clint is on my bed.

Why are we wasting time watching TV?

I spend the next thirty minutes trying to casually drop my hand into the popcorn bowl whenever his hand is there, without looking obvious about it.

Is he going to make a move? Maybe when the show is over?

When the credits roll he leans toward me. This is it! This is it! My heart is hammering about a thousand beats a minute. I’m not sure how many beats are normal, but this seems excessive. Can he hear it? I’ll bet he can hear it. I’ll bet he’s wondering if someone is at the door, because the sound of the pounding is echoing throughout the apartment.

And then…he kisses me.

On the cheek.

On the cheek? “Thanks, hon. You’re the best.” He jumps off the bed.

Come back, I telepathically scream. Where are you going? Return to my bed. Return to my bed!

“I’ll see you later this week, okay? We’ll grab dinner.”

“Oh. Okay, sure.” What are you doing? Where are you going? “No problem.”

“You have plans tonight?” He is looking at himself in the mirror, running his fingers through his recently processed hair.

“Um…I’m meeting some friends. My new roommate. Later. You?”

“I’m hooking up with the boys on College. First I have to stop by my place to change.” Apparently his snap pants are of the hangout not make-out variety. “Call me on my cell if you girls end up on College.”

“Definitely.” Definitely not. What a wasted opportunity. If I had gone with Emma then I could have plotted bumping into him. I push myself off the bed with my hands, and my buttered-covered fingers leave a trace on one of the daisies. Ew.

“You’re such a mess,” Clint laughs as I try to scratch the stain off with—oops—the sleeve of Em’s shirt.

Mess? I just cleaned my room for him. What mess? A little butter? Ew. This sleeve procedure isn’t helping the matter. Apparently butter stains must be some sort of contagious virus—the circle has now spread to twice its original size. Since letting him watch this cannot be a good strategy for the Get-Clint-to-Want-to-Have-Sex-with-Me objective, I walk him to the door.

“Have fun tonight. Maybe we’ll see you later,” I say.

See, wasn’t that sneaky of me? When I don’t show up later, he’ll think I’m far too busy to make time for him, thereby increasing my level of desirability. “Sure,” he says, and pats me on the head. “It’ll be fun to hook up.”

Hook up—hook up? Uh-oh, he’s really going. He’s walking away. Wait! I forgot about the vodka! Before next time I’d better forget about my popcorn abilities and focus on my bartending skills.

JODINE

“You’re here! You’re here!” Through the open passenger’s seat window of the Happy Movers truck, I hear a girl squeal. She’s short, has an incredibly long brown braid, and is wearing gray jaggedly uneven cutoff sweat shorts and a red cotton T-shirt. Is it possible? Can someone look more like Pippi Longstocking?