She goes by the name of Meeko these days. Has done so for a while. I guess it’s understandable considering her mother’s Japanese. Not that I’ve ever met her mother, that is. I’m not sure why she chose herself that particular name. I’ve asked several times, but she never replies, just makes these strange animal noises with a devilish look in her eye. If you’d never met her, and I had to describe her to you, imagine a child giggling at the sight of falling snow. That’s what she’s like, even when she’s sad. Each minute of every day, the brightest star in the sky by far.
“I’m hungry” she cries.
“But you ate less than an hour ago.”
Kicking her feet in frustration, she’s less than impressed by my words, and from love to hate, she jumps from the bed and claws at my face. It doesn’t hurt. Her nails are freshly trimmed. I did them myself last night while she was sleeping. It’s annoying though, and after several seconds of her scratching me I throw her down onto the mattress and cuss her out.
“Bastard” she hisses, and with that, she buries herself beneath the duvet.
Out of the door I go, and after descending the communal staircase, I step into startling sunshine. The air’s so warm it hurts to breathe, and as I stand there smoking my cigarette watching the traffic flowing down the strip, it seems to me as if life is but a dream.
Turning around, I see her peering out from our window on the second floor of the apartment. She’s got a scowl on her face like you wouldn’t believe.
“If you don’t go to the shops and buy me something, I shall burn your manuscript, and all your books, too, you filthy turd.”
I’m tempted to call her bluff, but this time, she could mean it, and I can’t risk letting her destroy my words.
“Throw down some money, and I’ll get you something then,” I say.
She disappears from the window and returns a few seconds later with a smirk. Throwing my wallet out, she deliberately aims it at my head, and I have to duck to avoid it hitting me. Giggling to herself, she moves off again as I pick the wallet up from the ground and shove it into my back pocket.
“What do you want me to get?” I shout.
“Everything” comes the response from somewhere inside.
Seeing as though it’s a beautiful day, I decide to turn left and take the longer walk to the row of stores at the end of the block, whereas going right would see me at the much closer local supermarket. She worked there once, not long after I first met her. She was fired after they caught her eating a chocolate éclair in the warehouse. She hadn’t paid for it. Her defence? That she was hungry.