“Where did you get that?” Travis Kasperbauer snatched the drawing from her hand.
Missy glared at him. “This is really weird, Travis.”
“It’s also none of your business,” he snapped, rolling up the paper into a tube.
“Actually, as your friend and roommate, it kind of is my business if you’ve been obsessively sketching some guy who attacked you four months ago.” She stood up. “I’m no psychologist, but I’m pretty sure that’s unhealthy.”
Travis ran his fingers through his sloppy hair. He always did that when he was frustrated. Or nervous. Or embarrassed. This time, though, he accidentally ripped out a few hairs in the process. He didn’t appear to notice. “You’re right, you aren’t a psychologist, so stop trying to psychoanalyze me––”
“233,” she said bluntly. “That’s how many drawings of this guy you have in your room. 233. Now tell me that’s not a little weird to you.”
“Shut up! You don’t understand...”
“So talk to me! Tell me what’s going on! How am I supposed to understand if you won’t let me?”
Travis paced around the little room, trying to figure out what to say. Missy waited patiently.
“I... I... it’s just that...” Travis was panicking. He couldn’t explain what was going on with him because he didn’t understand it himself. As he paced, he felt his palms begin to sweat, which only made him more conscious of the growing silence in the room. He looked up and, seeing Missy still staring at him, immediately looked away again. Her eyes were like lasers boring into the side of his head. His pulse picked up and his toes tingled. He thought he might pass out, and almost wished he would.
Just then, there was a knock at the door. Travis sighed with relief.
“I’ll get it,” he said abruptly. Missy rolled her eyes.
The woman on the other side of the door looked about as stressed as Travis felt. Her cheeks were flushed and she was breathing heavily. It then occurred to Travis that his apartment was on the top floor and just about everyone looked like that once they climbed all 12 flights of stairs to get there. Still, her presence comforted him somehow.
“Are you Travis?” She asked flatly.
Then he recognized her.
“Kindra,” he said.
“Yes. You have my wallet?”
“Yeah,” he unzipped his backpack. “It’s in here somewhere.”
Nobody said anything for a moment, so Kindra spoke up. “I feel like such an idiot. It must have fallen out of my pocket when I was on my way to the airport. But you can’t get very far there without an ID, so it didn’t take me long to figure out that I had lost it,” she said as Travis rummaged through the bag. “I’m just glad someone like you found it instead of some creepy guy––”
Kindra was interrupted when Travis’s sketchbook suddenly fell out of his backpack and hit the floor. It landed open, revealing yet another sketch of the dark, hooded man.
“...like him,” Kindra joked, pointing at the picture.
Nobody laughed, though. Instead, Travis avoided Missy’s glare as he hurriedly scooped up the book.
“Oh, there’s more?” Missy spat. “Because 233 isn’t enough.”
Travis fumbled with the book, trying to shove it back into his bag, but Missy snatched it from him. Kindra, confused, just watched.
“Oh my god. This is so not okay,” Missy said as she flipped through the book, seeing that Travis had drawn some variation of the attacker’s face on every page.
“Stop! Give it back!” Travis reached for the book, but Missy pushed his hand away.
To Kindra, the scene resembled one of those big-brother-little-brother fights where the big brother holds something above the little brother’s head, knowing he is too short to reach it, but the kid keeps jumping anyway. It was a little bizarre that Missy, who couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, played the role of the big brother, while Travis, who couldn’t have been less than six feet tall, played that of the little brother, but she said nothing.
A ridiculous game of tug-of-war ensued, which resulted in Travis accidentally ripping out a few of the pages and scattering them through the air.
Catching one, Kindra examined the man in the drawing. “Who is this?” She asked without diverting her eyes from the page.
Forgetting that they had a guest, Travis and Missy froze at the sound of her voice.
“What did you say?” Missy asked, casually brushing her messy hair back into place with her free hand.
Kindra looked up. “Who is this guy? He looks really familiar.”
Travis and Missy exchanged a skeptical look. “I don’t know his name. He attacked me a few months ago,” Travis said. “So I’ve kind of been drawing him a lot lately.”
“That’s a bit of an understatement,” Missy mumbled under her breath.
“Shut up,” Travis elbowed Missy in the ribs and turned back to Kindra. “Do you know him?”
“Not personally,” Kindra replied. “But I’ve definitely seen him before...” She continued to study the picture. Nobody spoke. Then she looked up, a look of recognition on her face.
“I think he works at Casa de Waffles,” she said softly, not entirely confident in her statement. “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him and Shaniqua talking there.”
Kindra noticed the similar confused expressions on their faces and, realizing neither of them knew Shaniqua, she clarified. “Shaniqua is a friend of mine who works there. She’s the tall, black woman who always wears those giant, gold door-knocker earrings. You can’t miss her.”
Travis and Missy stared at each other.
Assuming that they were a couple, Kindra thought they were doing that annoying mind-reading thing couples sometimes do.
And although they most certainly were not a couple, they did actually exchange a sort of are-you-thinking-what-I’m-thinking look.
“Uhh, can I have my wallet back?” Kindra interrupted the silent conversation.
“Oh, sorry,” Travis said. He dug through his backpack once more and quickly pulled out the wallet. “Here.”
“Thank you so much. And this is yours.” She handed him the drawing. “Good luck with... that, I guess.”
“Thanks,” Travis replied, attempting a friendly smile.
Kindra left, closing the door behind her. She stopped at the top of the stairs and tried to take in what she just witnessed.
“Strange people,” she said to herself.
Then she walked away.
Missy glared at him. “This is really weird, Travis.”
“It’s also none of your business,” he snapped, rolling up the paper into a tube.
“Actually, as your friend and roommate, it kind of is my business if you’ve been obsessively sketching some guy who attacked you four months ago.” She stood up. “I’m no psychologist, but I’m pretty sure that’s unhealthy.”
Travis ran his fingers through his sloppy hair. He always did that when he was frustrated. Or nervous. Or embarrassed. This time, though, he accidentally ripped out a few hairs in the process. He didn’t appear to notice. “You’re right, you aren’t a psychologist, so stop trying to psychoanalyze me––”
“233,” she said bluntly. “That’s how many drawings of this guy you have in your room. 233. Now tell me that’s not a little weird to you.”
“Shut up! You don’t understand...”
“So talk to me! Tell me what’s going on! How am I supposed to understand if you won’t let me?”
Travis paced around the little room, trying to figure out what to say. Missy waited patiently.
“I... I... it’s just that...” Travis was panicking. He couldn’t explain what was going on with him because he didn’t understand it himself. As he paced, he felt his palms begin to sweat, which only made him more conscious of the growing silence in the room. He looked up and, seeing Missy still staring at him, immediately looked away again. Her eyes were like lasers boring into the side of his head. His pulse picked up and his toes tingled. He thought he might pass out, and almost wished he would.
Just then, there was a knock at the door. Travis sighed with relief.
“I’ll get it,” he said abruptly. Missy rolled her eyes.
The woman on the other side of the door looked about as stressed as Travis felt. Her cheeks were flushed and she was breathing heavily. It then occurred to Travis that his apartment was on the top floor and just about everyone looked like that once they climbed all 12 flights of stairs to get there. Still, her presence comforted him somehow.
“Are you Travis?” She asked flatly.
Then he recognized her.
“Kindra,” he said.
“Yes. You have my wallet?”
“Yeah,” he unzipped his backpack. “It’s in here somewhere.”
Nobody said anything for a moment, so Kindra spoke up. “I feel like such an idiot. It must have fallen out of my pocket when I was on my way to the airport. But you can’t get very far there without an ID, so it didn’t take me long to figure out that I had lost it,” she said as Travis rummaged through the bag. “I’m just glad someone like you found it instead of some creepy guy––”
Kindra was interrupted when Travis’s sketchbook suddenly fell out of his backpack and hit the floor. It landed open, revealing yet another sketch of the dark, hooded man.
“...like him,” Kindra joked, pointing at the picture.
Nobody laughed, though. Instead, Travis avoided Missy’s glare as he hurriedly scooped up the book.
“Oh, there’s more?” Missy spat. “Because 233 isn’t enough.”
Travis fumbled with the book, trying to shove it back into his bag, but Missy snatched it from him. Kindra, confused, just watched.
“Oh my god. This is so not okay,” Missy said as she flipped through the book, seeing that Travis had drawn some variation of the attacker’s face on every page.
“Stop! Give it back!” Travis reached for the book, but Missy pushed his hand away.
To Kindra, the scene resembled one of those big-brother-little-brother fights where the big brother holds something above the little brother’s head, knowing he is too short to reach it, but the kid keeps jumping anyway. It was a little bizarre that Missy, who couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, played the role of the big brother, while Travis, who couldn’t have been less than six feet tall, played that of the little brother, but she said nothing.
A ridiculous game of tug-of-war ensued, which resulted in Travis accidentally ripping out a few of the pages and scattering them through the air.
Catching one, Kindra examined the man in the drawing. “Who is this?” She asked without diverting her eyes from the page.
Forgetting that they had a guest, Travis and Missy froze at the sound of her voice.
“What did you say?” Missy asked, casually brushing her messy hair back into place with her free hand.
Kindra looked up. “Who is this guy? He looks really familiar.”
Travis and Missy exchanged a skeptical look. “I don’t know his name. He attacked me a few months ago,” Travis said. “So I’ve kind of been drawing him a lot lately.”
“That’s a bit of an understatement,” Missy mumbled under her breath.
“Shut up,” Travis elbowed Missy in the ribs and turned back to Kindra. “Do you know him?”
“Not personally,” Kindra replied. “But I’ve definitely seen him before...” She continued to study the picture. Nobody spoke. Then she looked up, a look of recognition on her face.
“I think he works at Casa de Waffles,” she said softly, not entirely confident in her statement. “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him and Shaniqua talking there.”
Kindra noticed the similar confused expressions on their faces and, realizing neither of them knew Shaniqua, she clarified. “Shaniqua is a friend of mine who works there. She’s the tall, black woman who always wears those giant, gold door-knocker earrings. You can’t miss her.”
Travis and Missy stared at each other.
Assuming that they were a couple, Kindra thought they were doing that annoying mind-reading thing couples sometimes do.
And although they most certainly were not a couple, they did actually exchange a sort of are-you-thinking-what-I’m-thinking look.
“Uhh, can I have my wallet back?” Kindra interrupted the silent conversation.
“Oh, sorry,” Travis said. He dug through his backpack once more and quickly pulled out the wallet. “Here.”
“Thank you so much. And this is yours.” She handed him the drawing. “Good luck with... that, I guess.”
“Thanks,” Travis replied, attempting a friendly smile.
Kindra left, closing the door behind her. She stopped at the top of the stairs and tried to take in what she just witnessed.
“Strange people,” she said to herself.
Then she walked away.
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