The Hues of Me and You

Chapter One 
 “Fucking kill it,” Brooke yelled from on top of the couch.
 “Why do I always have to be the murderer?” Abby shouted just as loudly while standing next to her.
 “Abby, just kill it, and we’ll discuss later.”
 “I don’t want to.”
 An intense shudder snaked through Brooke. Any critter with more than four legs creeped her out. “Please!”
 Abby whined, stomped her feet on the couch cushion, and yelled, “Fine.” She hopped off the couch and scampered into the kitchen as if fire walking the whole way. She came back out with dish soap and a glass. “Where is it?”
 “Soap and a glass?” Brooke said. “You need more than that. Try a shovel or a flamethrower.”
 Abby walked around the coffee table with the weapons like the brave best friend that she was, ready to look a demon in the eye. She searched low but kept her arms extended as if ready to act at a moment’s notice.
 “I fucking hate living in the city,” Brooke said.
 Abby rolled her eyes and crouched. “No, you don’t. Last weekend, you were yelling down 18th Street all tipsy on White Claw saying how much you loved this place. Don’t lie.”
 Abby searched under the coffee table, then shrieked, causing Brooke to shriek again. The noise must have scared the demon because it scurried across the old parquet floor. Abby squirted Dawn soap everywhere until it covered the cockroach. As it slowed, she set the glass over it and sat with her back against the wall, exhaling a sigh of relief.
 Once it was trapped, Brooke calmed down and sat on the couch. She observed the six-legged brown monster fading away. She tilted her head. “Are we cruel for not scooping it up and letting it back outside? They’re pests, right? Serve no purpose in the circle of life?”
 “Actually, they clean up decaying shit,” Abby said. “Like plants and animals and they nourish growing plants. They’re, like, professional recyclers.”
 “How do you know?”
 “Because when we moved into this shithole, I looked it up after the first cockroach you and Stephen made me kill.”
 “So what you’re saying is that we’re awful people and should have released it on a plant outside?” Brooke said, shaking her head. “Great. We’re murderers.”
 “I’m a murderer since all you and Stephen do is scream. I’m the one with blood on my hands…well, dish soap. I’ll tell the landlord he needs to spray this place down. If the cockroach isn’t paying DC rent, it’s gotta go. This place is too small for us and its family. And don’t tell Stephen about this. It will bring back his insomnia.”
 Brooke zipped her lips.
 This was the third time an unwanted visitor had crawled through their apartment. The first time, Brooke had been by herself and had seen one skitter across the kitchen while cooking. She’d shrieked, and when it had disappeared, she’d packed her book bag and headed straight to her art studio. She’d stayed there until Abby had come home from work, and they could face the cockroach together.
 A couple of weeks later, the same cockroach—or another one—had visited again. Abby, Stephen, and Brooke were having a Friday night in, a rare Friday where none of them had to work, when a cockroach had scampered across the floor, resulting in all of them huddled in one bed for the night. They’d called the cockroach Roberta and had tried to capture her, but she was too dang fast.
 Now, Roberta was dead and covered in tiny soap bubbles.
 “While you’re at it, you should tell the landlord about the clogged kitchen sink.” Brooke checked on Roberta, dead underneath the glass. She was still amazed that dish soap did the trick. She shivered and snatched her purse off the coatrack. “I can’t even look at it.”
 “I like how you and Stephen are going off to the land of the rich tonight and leaving me here in the land of Robertas.”
 Brooke shrugged. “I picked up this guy’s shift last minute. Somewhere in St. Michaels, so we’ll be back super late. Stephen should be outside with the truck any minute now.”
 “Oh, St. Michaels? Schmoozing with the elite?”
 “More like making their drinks while they schmooze with each other.”
 She checked herself in the mirror, making sure the terror Roberta had caused a few minutes ago hadn’t ruined too much of her hair, makeup, and uniform: black slacks, white dress shirt under a black vest, and a black bowtie. She didn’t necessarily love being a bartender, but it paid her bills, helped pay for her art studio, and was what kept her afloat when combined with her day job as a freelance artist. Enough for her to breathe, at least. But she sensed that her quarter-life crisis was just around the corner. Did she stick to bartending and all the shifts that came with it in order to make enough money to afford rent, or did she move back to the corporate world to get that steady income?
 Until creating art paid all the bills, she would spend her nights making drinks for the rich and hopefully making lots of tips.
 “I hope you find a beautiful rich woman tonight,” Abby said. “Preferably one with a boat. Summer just started, and how amazing would it be if we could go on a boat?”
 “I wouldn’t have to work two jobs, so that would be spectacular.”
 “Well, your uniform really highlights all your gayness, so maybe it will all work out for you.”
 “I hope,” Brooke said teasingly and crossed her fingers. She glanced at her phone and noticed the text from Stephen saying he was outside. “Okay, Stephen’s here. Be back late. Good luck dealing with Roberta.”
 Brooke was grateful she had an hour and a half drive with her favorite coworker and roommate. Stephen insisted they blast Taylor Swift and nurse Starbucks venti drinks while enduring the Beltway and Bay Bridge