“This is getting slightly out of hand,” I said, waving the letter in Lindsay’s face. The air became clogged with the scent of cheap cologne. I imagined Walter lovingly spraying the envelope with his signature scent. Lindsay gagged and waved her hand in the air.

“What is that? Eau de Dead Fish? Just throw it out; I’ve got better things to do with my time than read that crap,” she grumbled, turning around to rummage through the refrigerator.
I smirked at Lindsay and crossed my arms. Though many told us we looked very similar, I didn’t see the resemblance. Lindsay had a small, athletic build, olive toned skin, and straight, cocoa colored hair. In contrast, I was pale with the occasional mysterious patch of eczema, hated exercising, and occasionally received the backhanded compliment that my coffee colored hair would make great dreadlocks. I refocused myself on the situation at hand.

“I must admit, I do enjoy living vicariously through your romantic life,” I joked. Lindsay sighed heavily, not even bothering to grace me with a comeback.

“Where the heck are the tortillas?” she complained. “I TOLD Mom to buy tortillas!” I raised an eyebrow.

“Doesn’t this affect you at all? You get like, a letter a day from this guy. I think you should write him a letter back,” I said. She wrinkled her nose and sat down at the counter, shoulders hunched.

“No way. I don’t want to talk to him. Do it for me. I’m going to play High School Musical on the piano and eat my burrito. No, burrito first, then piano.”

“I’ll help you write it,” I offered. “Here, let’s start. Dear Walter--”

“No, not dear! Are you crazy? He wouldn’t be able to handle that kind of seductive language. How about, ‘Greetings, Stalker McLoserface,’” she retorted.

“That’s clever, I like it,” I deadpanned. Lindsay flared her nostrils at me in a uniquely menacing gesture and continued dictating, her voice slightly muffled by food.

“I’d appreciate it if you left me alone forever. Your romantic advances are incredibly awkward for me. Anytime I have laughed at your feeble attempts at humor, it has been a pity laugh. I start running when I hear your heavy breathing behind me in the hall, not because I cannot contain my incredible athletic abilities, as I once told you, but because I can’t stand the thought of even being near you for the duration of passing time.” She nodded curtly, ponytail bobbing. “Good start?” I stifled a laugh.

“Oh yeah. But y’know, you might want to tone it down a little. He seems like the kind of person to go from spurned lover to psycho gunman.” Lindsay scowled in mock annoyance, idly drawing monsters on the notebook in front of her.
I watched her hand move carefully across the paper. We always joked about her old lady arthritic hands, with slightly crooked fingers and large knuckles. But they served her well enough in tasks ranging from playing the viola to defending herself against yet another soccer ball to the face.

“Lost in thought, Rednecca?” I couldn’t help but laugh at the terrible nickname she had bestowed upon me.

“Not anymore. It’s not fair that I can’t make your name into anything ridiculous you know,” I said.

Suddenly the dogs went wild as the doorbell rang. Lindsay glanced out the window and her dark eyes widened with unadulterated fear and loathing.

“Sweet Sandra Bullock! He’s here! I would recognize that training wheeled bicycle anywhere…I’mnothomeI’mnothomeI’mnothome,” she muttered bolting up the stairs in an incredible display of her athletic prowess. I smirked and slid down the side of the counter, shielding myself from view, knowing it would do no good. He’d be back tomorrow.