A/N: I really want to write this story. I know, I KNOW it's going to sound really American, or it's going to sound like a rip off of "Pretty Woman," but honestly, it's not like that. It's the best inspiration burst I've had in a long time, and I wasn't even thinking of "Pretty Woman" until I wrote chapter three, and I was like "crap!" But, um, you may review on how awful this is, or how slow it is, or whatever. Just some feedback would be nice, especially because I haven't written in quite some time.
It was unusually cold that night, despite the fact that the weather man had specifically called for a low of only sixty degrees Fahrenheit. The heat wasn't on too high in the small, one floor, two-bedroom house, seeing as how there was a fireplace in which sat a glowing fire. The gigantic 12" screen television was set to a low volume, and I sat on my tiny couch, Indian style. Every now and then I'd look up from my laptop screen to watch the interesting show about ancient fighting styles, but I'd soon go back to typing, listening to the narration of the program. My hair tied up in a messy pony-tail, due to the annoyance it provided when my head was downcast, I readjusted my glasses and continued to write a paper about some project that my office was working on.
I worked at home, for the most part, going into my office building only when I needed to attend a meeting, or get more paper, or perhaps steal a bagel. My work was alright. My boss liked me, as did my co-workers, and I could sleep in until noon without any bother. Of course I had to work until twelve that night, but that's alright. I was good at what I did, which was writing papers, or project appeals, or a speech every now and then for a dull-witted businessman at my job. It didn't matter if I worked almost every day, because I got paid, and I could afford to live in my beautiful house.
The living room consisted of a bookshelf with all my favorite movies, a TV, and a miniature couch. There were no walls between the kitchen and living room, just the line where the carpet connected with white tiles. The kitchen had a table, an oven with a stove on top, a refrigerator, some cabinets taking up two walls, and a sink with a window in front of it. No dishwasher, but, hey, I can survive. One bedroom was my "work space," but it was sort of a mess. There was a bed, oddly enough, but on it sat papers, old projects, papers, pictures, building designs, papers, old Christmas cards, did I mention papers? I don't even know what half of the stuff in there is. It's just a room with a bed, a shit-load of papers, and a small filing cabinet (not like I ever use it). Oh, and there's a small closet in that room with a washer and a dryer. I didn't really know where else to put them, and no one really came over and slept at my house other than me, so I put them there. Then there was the bathroom, which was almost nonexistent, but it had a toilet, a sink, and a shower with that funky glass door so you could see that a person was naked, but no fine details, just a fuzzy outline. Good enough for me. And then came my bedroom, at the end of the hallway. It was actually reasonably clean, with the exception of some dirty laundry lying about. My cat's litter box and bed tended to stink up the room, but that's what Febreeze is for.
Don't judge. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I think my house is beautiful.
I really don't know why I have a cat. I mean, when I bought the house, there was a dog flap on the front door, so I thought I'd get a dog, but no. I got a cat. Maybe because I promised Riku that if I was twenty-five and still single, I'd buy myself a cat so I wouldn't be lonely.
I stopped typing for a moment, and looked at my little, black, feline friend. She sat by the fire, her tail gently swaying back and forth. I had actually purchased her just last month, so she was still sort of a kitty. I had turned twenty-five last year, with a boyfriend of (world record, here) two weeks. I thought that he would be different, but he wasn't. I told myself, when he was gone, that I could buy a cat the next day. I never did get around to it until my twenty-sixth birthday. With a bonus in my paycheck, and my past three months of incredibly hard work, and my sister's wedding, I rewarded myself with Lucky.
That was her name. Lucky.
You know something? I am not a slut. Just because all the boyfriends I had lasted about three weeks...
Whatever. I'm not going to let it bother me anymore.
Lucky meowed, snapping me out of my daze. I shook myself, checked how far along I was in my paper, then yawned and stretched. I looked tiredly at my buddy.
"Hungry, little girl? Are you hungry?" Lucky meowed again and I nodded. "Well, let me finish typing this paragraph and I'll get you a treat." She didn't seem to like that idea, judging on how she hissed at me. I made a face. "I promise! It's the last damned paragraph, ok? The conclusion, I swear. Just give me five more minutes."
Lucky purred, then went back to watching the fire. The TV switched to commercial break.
Man: I was getting worried that I'd never meet that one special person.
Woman: I met him at a diner, and we just clicked.
Man: She smiled at me, and I knew she was the one.
Irritated, I jabbed the keyboard keys, finally managing to finish a proposal. I saved it to the hard drive, then saved it onto a disk, then attached it to an e-mail, which I then sent to my boss, and that was that. My job was completed. For the next twenty four hours anyway. It was ok, though. At least I had the next day off.
As quick as I could, I turned the television on mute, then I stood and stretched once more, hearing the bones in my legs crack. "Come on, Lucky. Let's get you some yum-yums."
She stood and stretched herself, and lazily followed me over to the kitchen. I opened a cabinet and took out two of her favorite treats, then opened another and took out a box of goldfish. I sat back down on the couch, and she jumped to my side, eating the treats I gave her graciously.
"Don't chew with your mouth open," I instructed her as I scratched he head. "It's rude."
The phone rang, which actually surprised me, due to the fact that it was eleven-thirty at night. I picked up the conveniently-placed cordless phone that sat by my laptop, to the other side of me on the couch.
"I need to speak with Harada Risa, please."
I ignored it and hung up. It was very often that telemarketers phoned me, and I could always tell if it was one of them because of how they sounded. If it was a friend or a co-worker, they would have sounded like a real person, or used another greeting, or something. They wouldn't have sounded like a complete machine.
The phone rang again, and I glared at it. I picked it up, though. It sounded like the same guy too. "I... need to speak with Harada Risa, please."
I decided to be kind to the poor, obviously new, telemarketer. "Sorry, but if you're trying to sell something, you're wasting your time and mine."
"No... no, I'm not a telemarketer. This is Hikari Satoshi. Harada-san and I are old friends. May I speak with her please?"
If I was tired before, I instantly awoke. "Satoshi-kun?"
A/N: Soooo... I'm back... and this is what I've got... comments? yay? nay? hoo-ray?