“How much rent?”

He runs his straightened inked fingers across his forehead and shrugs. “I dunno. Can we have a drink already?” He walks back into the hallway and turns towards the kitchen area.

I stalk after him. “Fine, let’s have a drink, but you need to tell me so I can work this shit out. I’m paying my way.”

He takes two shot glasses from a cupboard above the stove top, turns and clangs them down on the marble surface and slides a short clear glass bottle closer to him.

“Did you even hear what I just said?”

He turns to me, annoyance evident in the bunch of his brow. “Are you still talkin’?”

“Gah! Just open the bloody tequila.”

“Now that I heard.” He cracks open the bottle and pours us each a glass.

I don’t waste any time knocking it back. The smooth liquid glides down the back of my throat, warming my insides along the way. It packs a punch, but it’s delicious. I bring the thick shot glass down hard on the counter with more force than I intended.

“Greedy girl,” he says, and gulps down his drink.

“So, rent?” I dare ask again. I don’t give a shit if I annoy him. I need to know.

“Fuck, I dunno. A hundred bucks a week?”

Wow. That’s cheap. A lot lower than I was expecting, but it’ll still make things tight. The bank is always first in line.

“Good. I’ll have your money next payday.”

Rocco takes a worn gold key out of his pocket and hands it to me. “Here,” he grunts.

“Thanks.” I nod and put it in my pocket.

He refills his glass and hovers the neck of the bottle over mine.

“Another?” he asks.

“Why not?”

The second shot goes down easier than the first, and it’s about now I realise how hot my cheeks are after the first drink. I’m a cheap drunk and out of practice. I’ll be floating on cloud nine before I know it. I’d better put something in my stomach first.

“Cheers for that.” I look around and spot a kettle in the corner of the kitchen beside a chrome toaster. “I’m just gonna make myself something to eat.”

“Knock yourself out.” He pulls a foil bag out of the pantry and takes it with the bottle of alcohol and his glass to the lounge room, which is near the entry to the apartment. With a remote, he flicks on the large wall-mounted TV and then tosses the remote on the black leather lounge beside him. Sounds like a rugby game. Great.

I top up the kettle halfway with water and flick the switch to set it to boil, while I grab a shopping bag from my room that contains some staples: chicken-flavoured noodle cups, tea bags, instant coffee, a litre of milk and, of course, jelly.

I put the milk inside the fridge, which has a few condiments, juice and a pizza box. I find some space for the tea and coffee in the corner of the bench top, next to a spice rack. I run my hand along the lids on the top row. Dust collects on my finger. Are these spices for show or can Rocco actually cook?

The rustle of foil and a loud burp comes from the lounge room. Pig.

I angle my head around and catch him just as he shoves a fistful of orange corn chips into his face. Nope. He doesn’t look like the cheffy kind to me.

I take the plastic wrapping from my noodle cup, peel the paper lid halfway back and fill it to the line with boiling water.

The crunching in the lounge room continues, as Rocco feeds his face. Again, pig.

Without moving too far, I glance around the apartment, which hasn’t got much by the way of anything homely. A few old-fashioned tequila posters adorn the walls of the hall, but that’s about it. The living areas are open, with a dark dining table and chairs to the side of two lounges.

I take a look around the kitchen. Has it been recently renovated? The grey-flecked marble top matches well with the charcoal matte finish doors and black splashback. The ceilings are high with ornate cornices, indicating that the apartment was built quite some time ago. Stuck to the double-door stainless steel fridge is a photo of two guys, one of them Rocco, but with shorter hair all over, likely a number two, and a guy who looks similar but much younger. I’d ask who it is, but I’m not here to make friends with this guy. I might be living with him, but I want my space—physically and emotionally. I don’t want him to think that because I ask him questions that he’s entitled to do the same. My personal life is none of his business, and I guess in that light, his is none of mine.

“Fuck yeah!” Rocco calls out as the volume on the TV grows louder.

As if I wanna know all about his life. About all the MX hoes he’s had. I’m well aware he’s a whore. April has told me enough about him to know he’s a serial one-nighter without a scrap of a conscience. I hope he’s discreet when it comes to bringing women home. If I had a key to his apartment this afternoon, I know exactly what I would have walked in on. I don’t need to see him getting busy with some skank in his lounge room. Well, I guess it’s our lounge room, now.

I’m done with dick, and he needs to keep it in his pants when I’m around because seeing it will only remind me of Prince Fuckface, and I can’t be held responsible for what happens next.

I find a glass bowl in the cupboard and mix together green jelly crystals with half the remaining amount of boiling water, stirring until the sugar has dissolved, and then add the remaining cool water and put it in the fridge. Now that the noodles have been soaking long enough, I drain the liquid into the sink and take a fork from a nearby drawer.

I sit at a bar stool at the bench and eat in silence.

What a fucking day.

I eat the noodles slowly in an attempt to trick my body into thinking that it’s full. I clean up after myself, and move around so Rocco can see me. His head doesn’t move, but his dark eyes follow me.

“I’m off to bed,” I mumble.

He raises his glass in my direction, tilts his head back and pours the clear liquid into his mouth. He returns his gaze to the TV without another word.

This arrangement might actually work. At least I think it will, if Rocco keeps his mouth shut.

Once in the bedroom, I unpack some of my clothes into the wardrobe, grateful there’s already a heap of metal clothes hangers in here. On the top shelf there are a heap of packing boxes with the letter V scrawled on the side of each one in black marker. Who’s V?

I put the framed photograph of my Nan and I on the bedside table, and plug my phone in to charge.

Too lazy to have a shower tonight, I crawl beneath the dark grey cotton comforter and flop my head on the soft pillow. The sheets smell a bit stale, as if they’ve been on the bed for a while, but I really don’t care. I have a bed. I have a room, even. I’ll wash the linen tomorrow.

To someone else, someone like Bonnie, this wouldn’t be anything to be excited about. To me, it means so much. Something so simple has given me a little bit of hope.

I can do this. I can pull myself out of this shitty place.

I just have to find the faith in myself, which I know is buried down deep inside me somewhere.

****

After the best night’s sleep I’ve had in months, I have no trouble getting up. I take a towel and my purple bag of toiletries into the modern black and white bathroom, which houses the only loo in this place. The toilet seat is up, much to my disgust. It’s been an age since I’ve had to deal with that problem.

I unpack my toiletries into the second drawer, which had nothing but an empty razor packet in it, and take a shower. When I exit the bathroom the place is quiet, so I creep back into my room so I don’t wake Rocco. I waste no time dressing, and am ready as I’ll ever be to take on another busy day in the café.

When I pass the lounge room on my way to the front door, a grumble—well, more of a muffled snore comes from the couch.