Flash tale #2 - "Living Together"

Ah, let's just read it today 😊

It’s different at work. When I’m in the office - putting the finishing touches to a report, leading a meeting - I feel confident. Why wouldn’t I? Senior manager, proven track record, and I’m not even thirty years old.

After work, riding the B train back to my apartment, that’s when I begin to get nervous. I can’t sit still; I have to make sure that I have my phone, my keys.

Suzie the scatterbrain.

Because what if I lost them? What if I show up at the apartment and I have to knock on the door to get in? Looking down at my feet, blushing like a schoolgirl.

If that happened, Brenda would be right about me.

Frivolous. Fluttery.

She says that I’m forgetful. She complains that she has to clean up my messes. Which isn’t fair because I’m really very organized. Or at least, I was. Before she moved in. I’ve told her as much. I’ve made promises, that I’ll be better, that I’ll sort myself out.

I first met Brenda when she started work at my office as an assistant. Right away, I thought she was funny. Funny weird, not funny ha-ha.  She’s young and very pretty, but she never seems to go on dates. She’s completely private about her personal history but she never seems to stop asking questions about mine. And she has a way of touching me – not anything that would make me tell her to stop, nothing that would prompt me to call HR – just a tap on the arm or shoulder, but she combines it with a weird look, her special stare, that’s so intense that I lose my train of thought.

All those questions, but she didn’t really seem to like me that much. I could tell she was judging me, somehow feeling superior, even though I’m much more senior. We had next to nothing in common, but when I said I was looking for a roommate, she seemed to jump at the chance.

Nitwit.

I’m not even sure why I wanted a roommate. Brooklyn is expensive but I’ve always preferred having my independence, and my salary is so good these days.

The first week, she had a problem with everything. The wrong food in the refrigerator, the wrong laundry detergent. She said I was wasteful, incompetent.

I wouldn’t take insults like that from anyone. I’ve built my reputation as an assertive, confident woman. So why did Brenda’s jibes make me feel so ashamed? Why on earth did I start agreeing to do things her way, promising that I would do better?

More of those taps on the shoulder. More of those funny stares.

Featherhead. Ditz.

When I found her going through my closet, stuffing all the outfits she judged ‘inappropriate’ in a black trash bag, I should have had enough. I should have thrown her out.

Instead, I burst into tears. I sat down on the bedroom floor, and I bawled.

Because she had found me out, she had seen right through me. I was a cuckoo; I was an airhead. I’d only managed to get by this long by sheer luck. Brenda sat down beside me and held me close. She whispered the answer in my ear.

I just had to do as I was told. I just had to be a good girl.

Goofy. Witless.

Now, it’s better. Because I’m good. Because I let Brenda take charge. She prepares my meals (no more wine, no more junk) and she picks out my clothes (always sweet and cheerful, never black, and never sexy).

Brenda says I’m doing better. She says I’m being very good for her. Last night, she even let me have strawberry ice-cream for dessert as a treat treat, and after dinner she ran me a bath and then I put on the extra-special pajamas she bought me. She looked me up and down and told me that I looked pink and sweet, just like the ice-cream, and I laughed and laughed.

Sweet girl. Cutie-pie.

This morning, Brenda gave me new panties to wear that she said were ‘age-appropriate’. As soon as I put them on, I felt calm and happy. They’re thick but very comfy. Brenda says that as long as I don’t have any accidents, I can keep wearing the special panties.

Why would I have an accident?

Tonight when I get home from work, Brenda gives me a hug and asks me about my day. And then she asks if I need to go potty. I tell her no, but she says to go to the bathroom anyway, just in case.

And so I do, and that’s when I find the pink potty chair.

I frown. That’s not for me. Is it? I’m a grown up, I’m a…

I go back to find Brenda in the kitchen.

She gives me that funny look, like she knows everything, and I know nothing. She hugs me and whispers in my ear.

Princess Suzie.

I giggle. If I can make tinkles in the potty, it’ll sing a song! Brenda says that she’ll listen, because she wants to know if I can use the potty all by myself. Can I do that?

I nod my head. Of course I can! I run to the bathroom, pull down my panties and sit on my pink, princess potty. So I can make my tinkles. So Brenda knows that I’m a big girl.

THE END

"Suzie’s pretty but bossy roommate Brenda treats her like a child, and now Suzie comes home to find a potty chair in the bathroom"- Sebtomato