Chapter Six (Ground Rules)

I woke up to the sound of clanging pots.

My eyes shot open. The sky was barely light, that gray pre dawn color that meant it was too early for any reasonable person to be awake. I sat up, looked across the rooftop.

The man was at the camping stove, humming while he cooked something that smelled annoyingly good.

He moved with easy confidence, chopping vegetables on a small board, stirring a pot, completely unbothered by the fact that other people might be trying to sleep.

"Do you mind?" I called out.

He glanced over. "Mind what?"

"Making noise at the crack of dawn."

"It's six o'clock. The sun is up. Normal people are awake."

"Normal people have consideration for others."

"Normal people don't sleep until noon." He went back to his cooking, added something to the pot that sizzled loudly.

I threw off my blanket, stood up. "You're doing that on purpose."

"Doing what on purpose?"

"Being loud. Obnoxious."

He turned to face me fully, wooden spoon in hand. "I'm cooking breakfast. If that offends you, I suggest you find somewhere else to live."

"I was here first."

"By what, three hours?" He raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't give you rooftop privileges."

"I paid for this space just like you did."

"Then I suggest you get used to me cooking. Because I eat. Regularly. Which apparently is more than I can say for you."

Heat flooded my face. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I saw your pathetic attempt at rice yesterday. That wasn't cooking. That was a crime against food."

"At least I tried."

"Trying and failing isn't something to be proud of." He turned back to his stove. "Maybe if you actually knew what you were doing, you wouldn't be so irritable."

I clenched my fists. "Maybe if you weren't so insufferable, I wouldn't have to be irritable."

"Big words from someone who can't even feed herself."

"I can feed myself just fine."

"Really?" He gestured at my corner where the evidence of yesterday's disaster was still visible. "Because that mess says otherwise."

I wanted to throw something at him. Wanted to march over there, shove him off this rooftop, watch him fall. But that would require getting closer to him, which I absolutely refused to do.

"You know what? Fine. Cook your meals. Make your noise. I don't care." I grabbed my bag. "I'll just make sure I'm never here when you are."

"Excellent plan. I'll do the same."

"Perfect."

"Great."

I stormed toward the stairs, my footsteps loud on the concrete. Behind me I heard him chuckle, which made my blood boil even hotter.

I spent the morning at a small cafe, nursing a coffee I couldn't really afford, watching people pass by on the street. My stomach growled but I ignored it. I wasn't going back to that rooftop until I was certain Mr. Obnoxious was gone.

By noon the heat was unbearable. I had no choice but to return. I climbed the stairs slowly, praying he'd be out.

The rooftop was empty. Thank god.

I went to my corner, pulled out the rice I'd bought yesterday. I could do this. I could cook a simple meal without his help, without his judgment.

I turned on the camping stove, filled the pot with water, added rice. I watched it carefully, stirred it occasionally, tried to remember everything I'd observed from watching others.

Twenty minutes later I had rice that was somehow both mushy in some parts, crunchy in others. I stared at it, felt tears of frustration burning in my eyes.

How did people make this look so easy?

I forced myself to eat it, every terrible bite. I needed food. I couldn't afford to waste anything.

I was washing my pot when I heard footsteps on the stairs. I didn't turn around, didn't acknowledge him. I just kept scrubbing.

"Still destroying food, I see," he said.

I gritted my teeth. "Go away."

"This is my space too. I can stand wherever I want."

"Then stand somewhere else."

"No, I think I like this spot." I could hear the smirk in his voice. "Great view of cooking disasters."

I spun around. "Do you have anything better to do than antagonize me?"

"Not really. This is pretty entertaining."

"I'm so glad my struggles amuse you."

He shrugged, completely unbothered. "Not my fault you can't handle basic survival skills."

"Not everyone grew up having to cook for themselves."

"Clearly." He walked past me to his corner, so close I could smell whatever cologne he wore mixed with cooking spices. "But if you're going to pretend to be poor, you should at least learn how to act the part."

I froze. "What did you say?"

He turned, looked at me directly. "You heard me. You're pretending. Everything about you screams money. The way you move, the way you talk, the way you can't do anything without help. So whatever reason you have for being here, for playing dress-up in poverty, maybe try a little harder to sell it."

My heart was racing. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" He tilted his head, studying me. "You're scared of everything here. The food, the people, the dirt. You look at this rooftop like it's a prison. You're not here because you want to be. You're here because you have to be. Question is, why?"

"That's none of your business."

"You're right. It's not." He started unpacking his groceries. "But if you're going to survive here, you need to stop acting like a spoiled princess who's never had to work for anything."

The words hit like a slap. "Excuse me?"

"You're excused." He didn't even look at me. "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to cook my dinner in peace. Without commentary from someone who can't tell the difference between rice and cement."

I opened my mouth to respond, couldn't find words, closed it again. I turned on my heel, went to my corner, lay down on my mattress facing away from him.

Behind me I heard him cooking. Heard the sizzle of oil, the chop of knife on board, the gentle bubbling of something delicious. My stomach growled traitorously.

I closed my eyes, tried to block it all out. Tried to ignore him, ignore my hunger, ignore the fact that he was absolutely right about everything.

The sun set. The sounds of the city changed from daytime chaos to nighttime noise. I didn't move from my mattress. Didn't eat. Didn't speak.

"You're going to starve out of spite?" he called across the rooftop.

"Leave me alone."

"Gladly. Just don't die over there. The smell would be terrible."

I grabbed my thin pillow, pressed it over my face, screamed into it. The sound was muffled, pathetic.

From across the rooftop I heard him laugh.

Tomorrow, I decided, we were setting ground rules. Boundaries. A schedule so we never had to interact. Because I couldn't spend the next three months living with someone this insufferable.

I'd rather die alone on this rooftop.

Though knowing him, he'd probably just make jokes about it.