It was a Sunday morning. I woke up to the smell of bacon. No one had a spare key for my dorm room except her so I knew exactly who it was. I forced myself to get up from my cozy, warm bed and went straight to the kitchen. I saw Ilya flippantly cooking bacon--the one I bought just yesterday--on my non-stick pan. She looked out of focus so I snapped my fingers to get her attention. She looked at me, startled by my sudden presence. I spoke, "That's enough already. I don't like them crunchy."
Ilya looked incredulous. "Who said they were for you?" she retorted.
"Your conscience. You should listen to it for once," I replied before yawning. I got a cup of coffee and leaned on the ledge of the kitchen while staring at her. Ilya was wearing my apron over her casual clothes.
She chuckled and said, "Okay. I lost that one."
"You always do." I took a sip.
"Well, excuse me." Ilya rolled her eyes with an offended look.
"Sure. You're excused. Get out."
Ilya clicked her tongue out of mock-irritation, "Damn it. I fell right into that one, huh?"
I smiled. Silence ensued into the room. Only the the sound of sizzling meat remained.
"I broke up with Ethan," she declared casually as she flipped the bacon one by one.
I took a sip of my coffee calmly before saying a simple, "I see." It tasted bittersweet.
This has always been our dynamic. We've been friends since we were children. My family moved in the neighborhood and she was there, playing with the sand every single day on an ever grander scale. I approached her first and since then, we've been best friends.
She grabbed a plate and took the bacon out from the pan. Ilya laid it on the table and I took a seat.
"These are all toasted. I told you I didn't like them that way," I said begrudgingly.
"We can't have everything we want, Peter." She grinned.
You mean like I can't have you?
I forcefully suppressed the thoughts and just grabbed some bread.
Ilya smirked before placing another plate on the table. It was bacon cooked exactly the way I liked it. Where it came from and when exactly did she cook them, I didn't know.
I blankly stared at her as she casually ate her portion before grabbing some of mine. I took a bite. They were still warm, but not too hot. It indicated the fact that she prepared them first. I wasn't really all that hungry.
In the end, I finished it all.
"What happened anyway?" I asked after we were both finished and cleaning up.
She replied, "I don't know. I mean, like, um. Hmm, yeah. I'm not sure, really. I guess he just wasn't right for me."
After a pause, I said, "Do you wanna drink and talk about it?"
She asked, tilting her head, "What kind?"
"I have tequila." I shrugged.
"Sounds pretty good," she replied.
"I'll get it then." I went to my room and opened the drawers under my bed. I had plenty of alcohol, actually. I usually drink tequila for the more casual sessions though. They don't typically come with hangovers, but I'm careful never to get one anyway. If I really wanted to get fucked up, I'd just snort coke or something. I rarely want that, so weed was mostly my recreational drug. More mild. And legal.
I took the bottle of alcohol in my hands and closed the door. Not before Ilya followed me in the room and comfortably allowed herself to fall on my bed.
I asked, "You wanna drink here?" It was mostly for formalities. Knowing her, she'd love to drink here.
"Yes, please," Ilya replied as she made herself comfortable wrapped around my blanket.
I turned on air-conditioning before going into the kitchen and grabbing two shot glasses along with salt and sliced lemons. When I returned, Ilya was already sound asleep.
I chuckled. I've always been amazed by how quickly she could sleep anywhere, as long as she trusted whoever was with her.
I hated that audacity, but I loved it when she did it with me.
I crouched and leaned in close to her face. I twirled the few strands of her brown hair resting itself on her forehead before brushing it lightly behind her ears. She looked a lot more bright when she was sleeping. My heart twinged.
Before I continue, you probably need a little background on us.
I'm in love with this girl. I want to say I'm only kind of into her or something to downplay my feelings, but that seems a bit pathetic--even from me. Plus, I'd like to say I'm pretty open about it. Except to the actual person involved. You see, I never liked lying, but I am pretty darn good at it when necessary. This is one of many instances where it was. I made sure I hid my romantic feelings well from her.
So, yeah. I'm very much in love with my best friend. I can't quite get enough of her.
Beautifully unhinged in a neutral, mysterious kind of way, Ilya was a gorgeous Latina woman with a brilliant mind and the most incredible sense of humor I've ever come across in my life. She was witty, nice, charming. Not in the perky way either, which I personally find tiring to deal with. I could engage in a conversation with her for the longest time without getting bored for a minute. Meanwhile, one of her smiles can power a solar panel for days.
Of course, she isn't without flaws; Ilya can act pretty childish sometimes, but she gives great advice when people need it. She considers pretty much every side so she's mostly neutral, but she's also pragmatic in that she's aware there are correct choices, although not necessarily right by today's standards. She hates dancing, raisins, and warm pillows. On the other hand, she loves drinking, singing, and watching the trashiest movies in creation.
All these tiny details made up Ilya, the individual whom I loved for the past ten years. I'm way past that embarrassment in admitting it to myself.
I knew almost everything about her after all these years. I'm also painfully familiar with her dating habits--in that she basically dated different guys every month. Every time she breaks up with a dude, she barges into my house the next morning and proceeds to eat my food for the next week. Whenever it happened, I always uncontrollably wondered why she never touched or considered me. Especially when we get along so well.
Now I know what you're thinking. Mind you, I'm a conventionally attractive man with nice eyes and a well-built stature. God, it sounds fucking narcissistic when I say that, but it's true. I've been told I take after my mother, who was popular for being really pretty back then. Then my father with his height. So, I think I'm pretty blessed in that respect.
Many girls (and boys) constantly express their interest in me. When they do, they always either mention my green eyes, my curly dark-brown hair, or my tall, lean physique. In fact, for the better part of my college life, I was known for being that "smoking freshman." It actually got pretty annoying. Sure, the compliments were new and exciting. After all, no one's actually been forward enough to tell me I'm attractive before except my family.
But weird stuff kept happening around me constantly, and it became harder to do casual stuff. Plus, college girls were terrifying to me then, with all the confessions and the giggling and the flirting. Until now, the quality I love and fear the most about them is their unabashed, transparent honesty. They're among the most straightforward people I have ever met in my life, hands down.
I've been told I look like I don't have a personality by a pretty girl (ouch), and that I should watch my back lest my clothes be ripped off the moment I let my guard down by another on the same fucking afternoon. They'd just greet me, saying the damnest, most unfiltered things. This continued on for the whole semester during my first year. They insistently flirted and stared at me from afar until an upperclassman, Imani, asked me out for a date, to which I agreed to.
Why wouldn't I?
Imani was a beautiful black woman who was well-known around campus as the ace of our varsity team in tennis. Honestly, despite my popularity, she felt way out of my league. I wasn't socially inept, but I was most definitely introverted so I didn't really make new social circles--which, by college standards, was pretty lame. Imani, on the other hand, was pretty friendly. Coupled with her maniacal skills in tennis, she was famous even around other neighboring universities. She basically had a shiny halo above her head. Those type of women don't usually go for men like me, no matter how handsome they were.
Still, I didn't question it much then. I was plenty attracted to her; Imani was pretty damn mature and composed even for her age. She was polite to the people around her too, no matter who they were.
She had a bit of meat (especially on her thighs), which I really liked. Her arms were pretty toned from varsity training. Tennis was no fucking joke. Her body was really maintained down to every fiber of fat and muscle. I remember blankly staring at her once when she was training. Back then, I was a bit ashamed to admit I had a thing for women in sportswear. It's just so fucking typical of me as a man to find that attractive, you know?
I couldn't help it though. That shit is hot to me even now. The only difference is, I hid it then.
Every day during training, Imani wore a white racerback top and tight shorts that showcased her cheeks to the brim. God, she looked so fucking hot. I couldn't take my eyes off her. More specifically, her fucking ass. Watching it bounce for ten minutes straight makes your mind numb, I tell you. It's literally a fucking work of art. Jesus. It was so round and big, but not in the unnatural, plastic surgery kind of way—which I don't really hate or mind at all. It's just not my thing.
Her buttocks laid perfectly well onto her meaty thighs--simultaneously looking practical and beautiful. You could easily tell it was a result of hard work, training, and sadly, genetics. It wasn't something anyone could achieve--at least not in the same, shapely way. It really was one of a kind. The type of ass that could turn heads around anywhere you go.
The type of ass that could figuratively make an atheist look up and give God a fucking thumbs up. Man, just remembering the first time I ever saw it naked still got my mouth watering even now.
Surprisingly, if I had to choose my favorite part of Imani, however, it would probably be her light-brown eyes. They just really fucking glowed when paired with her beautiful, black skin. It was effortlessly surreal.
We went out on a date on this high-end restaurant. I had tons of fun--spending the better half of our little meet-up just looking at the way her eyes popped with the warm lighting. Imani was pretty nice the whole time. She even paid in the end. I told her it wasn't necessary, but she said she asked me out so it's her responsibility to pay. I felt pretty bad, so I ended up buying her the pair of shoes she obviously had her eyes on to make it even.
