Page 4 of Rival Season
I take a deep breath and switch positions on my yoga mat, reminding myself that I can deal with a little extra noise for this floor to ceiling window in a luxury apartment. I could never afford a place with a perfect view of the Golden Gate Bridge on the meager pay I receive from my research assignment, so I'm grateful for this long-term house-sitting gig my boyfriend’s aunt and uncle offered me. Jeffrey and Violet are the best, aside from their questionable choice of pets.
I take a moment to relish the gorgeous view. The sunrise is peeking just above the water in the Bay, casting streaks of pink and orange across the water and the sky. I perform a few more stretches before glancing at the time on my wristwatch. My hour of allotted yoga time is over, and now it’s on to the next step of my routine.
Sticking to a perfectly mapped out schedule is the only way I’m going to survive my arduous PhD program in Social Welfareat UC Berkeley. Could I have simply gotten my master’s degree and been done with it? Yes. But I’m a bit of an overachiever, and I like that, with a PhD, I’ll have the option to go into policy someday if I want to.
Each morning, I wake up at 5:30 and do an hour of yoga, followed by a shower and my four-step skin care routine, after which I eat breakfast promptly at seven.
I eat the same thing every morning, an acai bowl. Then I feed Fluffy, which is my least favorite thing in the world, but worth it to live here rent free. Fluffy is the bane of my existence—she has that in common with the tattooed man who lives above me, although he is nicer to look at.
Much as that pains me to admit.
Luckily, as long as Fluffy behaves, the horrifying process of feeding her only takes a few minutes, and then I’m either researching, writing my dissertation, heading to Berkeley to meet with my advisor, or working at my field placement, Safe Harbor.
I’m busy, so my time is precious and I must be vigilant in managing my schedule to stay on track.
Today, however, there’s a hiccup in my meticulous routine. Last night a Berkeley acquaintance, Sasha, texted asking to meet for coffee. I wouldn’t normally stray from what’s in my calendar, but I’m trying to be better about making friends—seeing as my boyfriend is the only person I really know in California.
I finish with my shower, hair, and makeup before I get dressed in a white long sleeve shirt, brown corduroy jumper dress over the top, and my favorite tights to keep my legs warm. During the entiregetting readyprocess, I find myself growing annoyed at how much extra time this coffee date is taking out of my day. Taking a deep breath, I remind myself for the millionth time that it’s important to have work-life balance.
I’m ready to head out, but I haven’t fed Fluffy yet—something I always put off until the last minute. Not only am I creeped out by Fluffy, but she eats an exclusive diet of crickets and cockroaches, which is disgusting.
Bracing myself, I move into the kitchen and extricate the container from the fridge that contains her meal. I hold the jar of crickets as far away from my person as possible as I tiptoe into the guest room where her heated cage resides. I brace myself as I look through the glass to find her. She’s hiding beneath her arched rock thingy.
“Hi, Fluffy,” I say in what I hope is a pleasant and not disgusted tone. “I have your crickets for the day. Yum, yum!”
The tarantula scurries from beneath her rock and stares at me with her eight eyes.
Are all eight eyes on me? I’m not sure.
I study her, trying as always to understand why Jeffrey and Violet think she’s so adorable…but I stare too long, and a shiver rolls through me.
Opening the top of her cage, I drop the crickets in through the opening and close it quickly. “There you go; have a lovely day.”
Her fangs twitch, and I pretend it’s a friendly wave.
Twenty minutes later, I arrive at the coffee shop a few blocks from my apartment. The small business is cozy with dark colors and tartan pillows. A fireplace is blazing in the center of the room, casting every nook in warm light. All the furniture looks old and antique, with plush armchairs and sofas scattered about. This coffee shop always looks so comfortable, like you can make yourself right at home. I come here often to write when the doofus above my apartment is too loud.
Sasha is already seated on a worn leather sofa by the front window with a coffee cup in hand. She smiles and waves, but there’s something tense about her movements, and the smiledoesn’t reach her eyes. My hackles rise, but I smile back, wondering for the thousandth time why she wanted to meet today. We don’t know each other well, and we’ve never met up or texted about anything other than coursework before. I order an Americano, then cross the space and sit beside her on the sofa with my steaming mug in hand.
“Hey, Sasha,” I greet her.
She’s all curves compared to my somewhat gangly figure—something that makes me a bit envious. Sasha also has the most perfect blonde hair, always smooth and shiny. I wouldn’t have the first clue how to get my frizzy curls to look like that. Sasha is one of those girls who’s so sweet you can’t help but be drawn to her, but also so stunning I find myself feeling a little insecure sitting next to her.
“Hey, good to see you,” she says, tapping her fingers nervously on her cup.
“I’m so glad you texted. I haven’t seen you in ages. How’s your research going?”
She relaxes at this, her fingers ceasing their tapping. “Good, but exhausting. Yours?”
I sip my Americano before responding. “I’m struggling to find people to interview, but it’s going well besides that.”
She nods, a perfect coil of hair falling over her shoulder. “Yeah, finding resources is challenging.”
An awkward silence lingers between us for a few moments before Sasha opens her mouth to speak but then closes it again.
She takes a deep breath. “So, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” Sasha says, finally breaking the silence.
I raise my eyebrows and take another sip as I wait for her to continue.
