“Holy dip on a carrot, I did it!” I squeal softly to myself as I finish the edits on the last line of my thesis and click save nineteen times. After nearly three months of killing myself and creeping into this hospital cafeteria to work because I couldn’t seem to write this godforsaken paper anywhere else, I have finally completed my master’s thesis.
Dip on allll the carrots!
Intense, sweet relief shoots through my veins. I could stand on my chair and blast light from my fingertips. Instead, like the mature graduate I’m on my way to becoming, I sit back and bask in my achievement while observing my fellow cafeteria diners. These people have unknowingly kept me company as I’ve suffered through this paper. And I never would have had the guts to come here to work if it weren’t for Kate.
With a grin, I pull my phone out of my laptop bag and type out a quick text.
Me: I did it. I finished.
Kate: Aww, see? I told you if you used the bigger attachment on your vibrator, you’d climax quicker.
Me: I’m not talking about masturbation, you perv.
Kate: Perv? You say that like it’s a bad thing! Don’t you realize that being called a perv is basically a compliment to an erotic romance novelist? Actually, you’ve just inspired me to get it embossed on my business cards.
Me: I’m talking about my thesis. I finally finished!
Kate: Holy shitballs…congratulations! That’s better than an orgasm!
Me: I know, right?
Kate: And let me guess, you’re at the hospital cafeteria again?
Me: I’m embarrassed to admit it, but yes.
Kate: I told you not to feel bad about writing where the words flow. My smutty words flow at a tire shop waiting room, and yours flow at a hospital cafeteria. We’re productive millennials, Lyns! Which is more than I can say for the rest of our generation. You totally owe me a fruity beverage, by the way.
Me: That’s exactly what I was thinking! Hang at my tiki bar tonight?
Kate: Can’t tonight. Miles put a roast in the crockpot, and he’s embarrassingly proud of himself about it.
Me: That sounds so domestic and boring. How is cohabitating with your lover going, by the way? It’s only been a week since you moved out & I already miss my best friend. My tiki bar is sad too!
Kate: I miss you too! But I’m getting sex on the reg now, so I have to admit, I don’t miss you that much.
Me: You’re disgusting. I hate your happiness.
Kate: That’s because you need sex! Call Dean and make him be your wingman tonight. Get out of your house and away from the tiki bar to celebrate this achievement. It’s about time you were wooed by something other than a fruity beverage and the Womanizer Pro40.
Me: You’re the worst.
Kate: Later, whore
Me: Later, perv
I can’t help but laugh as I shut off my phone screen. Kate always brings a smile to my face. She is so unapologetically herself twenty-four seven. It’s incredible, really. She’s basically loaded from writing erotic romance novels but still loves going to a Tire Depot Customer Comfort Center to write because the coffee is complimentary, and she hates paying for Starbucks. But that’s Kate, through and through.
We met almost ten years ago as freshmen in the undergrad dorms at the University of Colorado Boulder. She was this bold, outgoing redheaded cartoon character who was gorgeous and fearless with everything. I was the awkward, soft-spoken kid with mousy brown hair and a penchant for slouchy shoulders.
Kate and I were total opposites who somehow connected instantly and balanced each other out. She would tell me when I was being too timid, and I would tell her when she was being too crazy. That’s why I wasn’t even surprised when she started sneaking into Tire Depot a few months ago because she claimed the waiting area cured her writer’s block.
Honestly, it’s not the craziest thing I’ve seen her do. And it paid off because, in the end, she did more than just finish her novel. She fell in love with a hot mechanic named Miles. And now those two lovebirds are living together in his house outside of Boulder in some sexy, tire-lovin’, burnt rubber-scented candle sin.
Life can be seriously unfair sometimes.
The closest I’ve come to sparks flying at my writing hangout was when an elderly man’s portable oxygen tubes fell off his face while he was reaching for a piece of pie. I bent over to pick them up for him, and when I attempted to