Doing a breath check (You know. That thing that doesn't actually work where you breath quickly into your palm and smell it to determine your breath quality.) and straightening my hair with my other hand, I was hopefully presentable enough. Not for Mrs. Zheng's eye, because she never really seemed to care about my appearance, but because Anya was invariably with her, and... Well, you can probably guess. Anya's only the most beautiful woman in the world. Just saying.
I opened the door to reveal Mrs. Zheng, Anya, and... Her boyfriend. Yeah, I forgot to mention him. Arnold. Jerk. The worst person on the planet. Scum. Satan. Seriously, Anya could do better. Ignore the fact that he's the starting quarterback at his school and will probably play professional football the moment he's out of school. Ignore his good looks and charm. And muscles. Ignore those too. He's just a real jerk. And a jock. I don't understand why she's so in love with him. Well, she's not in love with him. She just likes him a lot. He's cute.
Not that she's superficial. She's not. She's amazing. Intelligent. Beautiful. Cute. Everything. And he's an idiot. Ugh.
Mrs. Zheng got out of the passenger side of the dark red Buick holding a massive pot filled with the chicken soup she'd mentioned. At least, Arnold not withstanding, I would get the world's best chicken soup out of the deal. Anya, amazing, wonderful, beautiful, perfect Anya got out of the driver's side, with stupid, ugly, moronic, insipid Arnold getting out of the back driver's side. It's like he wears shirts that his muscles squeeze out of on purpose.
Not that I'm some horribly scrawny guy. I mean I mostly am. But that's not the point. It doesn't matter how much someone has good looks. It doesn't even matter how much money someone has, though both Arnold's parents and myself have it. It matters what kind of person you are. Arnold is a douchebag.
The three of them, now outside of the vehicle, began walking to my house, which is not a mansion, just so you know. Yes, I have a security gate, but my house is only three stories. That's still big, I get it, but there's only so much room one man can handle.
Mrs. Zheng was always the first through the door to any house she visited, having a distinct dislike of being outdoors at all. She gave me her usual nod she was already inside. And though I tried to take the pot of soup from her, she gave me a look, a quick one, that told me if I so much as touched the pot my hands would be removed from my wrists and she'd use her teeth to do it. Anya followed her and gave me that damn smile.
It's the kind of smile that makes you forget about the world around you. Where even the simplest movements of her mouth make me think she created that very smile for me, and for me alone. It is, without a doubt, the world's most amazing smile. And every time I see her even grin a little, I fall into a near trance of giddiness hoping to never have to come out of it, hoping that if I do come out of it, she'll be there waiting to embrace me and we can run off into the sunset for our wonderfully cliché and cheesy declaration of love.
And nothing punctures that bubble better than the burly form of Arnold walking with his self-righteous strut behind the perfect woman he so thanklessly calls his girlfriend. God. I hate him. And his stupid knowing nod that he always gives me. Which he gave me then. With that grin.
See, look who I'm dating, his eyes silent say to me.
Yeah, she's a catch, my eyes say pathetically in return. But what I'm really thinking is:
Go die in a fire, you ugly jock piece of crap.
Not that she's superficial. She's not. She's amazing. Intelligent. Beautiful. Cute. Everything. And he's an idiot. Ugh.
Mrs. Zheng got out of the passenger side of the dark red Buick holding a massive pot filled with the chicken soup she'd mentioned. At least, Arnold not withstanding, I would get the world's best chicken soup out of the deal. Anya, amazing, wonderful, beautiful, perfect Anya got out of the driver's side, with stupid, ugly, moronic, insipid Arnold getting out of the back driver's side. It's like he wears shirts that his muscles squeeze out of on purpose.
Not that I'm some horribly scrawny guy. I mean I mostly am. But that's not the point. It doesn't matter how much someone has good looks. It doesn't even matter how much money someone has, though both Arnold's parents and myself have it. It matters what kind of person you are. Arnold is a douchebag.
The three of them, now outside of the vehicle, began walking to my house, which is not a mansion, just so you know. Yes, I have a security gate, but my house is only three stories. That's still big, I get it, but there's only so much room one man can handle.
Mrs. Zheng was always the first through the door to any house she visited, having a distinct dislike of being outdoors at all. She gave me her usual nod she was already inside. And though I tried to take the pot of soup from her, she gave me a look, a quick one, that told me if I so much as touched the pot my hands would be removed from my wrists and she'd use her teeth to do it. Anya followed her and gave me that damn smile.
It's the kind of smile that makes you forget about the world around you. Where even the simplest movements of her mouth make me think she created that very smile for me, and for me alone. It is, without a doubt, the world's most amazing smile. And every time I see her even grin a little, I fall into a near trance of giddiness hoping to never have to come out of it, hoping that if I do come out of it, she'll be there waiting to embrace me and we can run off into the sunset for our wonderfully cliché and cheesy declaration of love.
And nothing punctures that bubble better than the burly form of Arnold walking with his self-righteous strut behind the perfect woman he so thanklessly calls his girlfriend. God. I hate him. And his stupid knowing nod that he always gives me. Which he gave me then. With that grin.
See, look who I'm dating, his eyes silent say to me.
Yeah, she's a catch, my eyes say pathetically in return. But what I'm really thinking is:
Go die in a fire, you ugly jock piece of crap.
