“Get your feet off me,” Ivy grunted as she hefted Keith’s legs off her lap and pushed them toward the floor. The collar of her t-shirt was stretched over her mouth and nose in some form of an inadequate gas mask.
“I’ll put my feet wherever the Hell I want,” Keith drawled groggily, smoke billowing from his mouth like water from a fountain. He threw his crossed legs back onto the couch, his lowest heel meeting her nearest thigh. Uttering a sigh that sounded more like a growl, Ivy slunk from beneath the weight of his legs and plopped right down on his sockfeet. She heard something pop when she landed, and the blond smirked viciously in his direction. Keith snorted.
“Now they’re nice and toasty,” he teased with a shit-eating grin, ashes falling like snow onto his olive thermal. Ivy rolled her eyes but refused to move despite how uncomfortable she was. However, she soon realized that her hunger far outweighed her desire for vengeance, and she rose to pad across the loft to the kitchen, her slippers leaving prints in the dust. There was a reason she never walked barefoot in his sty.
As she began to clink jars and move items around in the fridge, Keith yelled, “Make me somethin’.”
“I’m maybe ten feet away from you… Do you have to yell?” Ivy hissed, though she was certain Keith either couldn't hear her or had purposely tuned her out.
“And no, I will not ‘make you something’,” said she, speaking the quote in the most dimwitted impression she could muster. “You can get off your ass and make something for yourself.”
Keith released a deep sigh. “Whatever,” he breathed, content never to move again. He had been sprawled across the couch watching old black-and-white reruns for at least four hours. He was halfway through a carton of cigarettes, to Ivy’s vehement displeasure. She was fairly sure that every time he exhaled, he was purposely trying to blow smoke as far as he could in her direction. When she returned with the sandwich she had thrown together, Ivy released a long sigh, trying to calm herself when he didn't move his feet.
“Can you please let me sit down?” she begged most insincerely.
“I’m sorry,” Keith whined mockingly as he turned his icy gaze on her. “Does this bother you?”
“Obviously, yes, since this is the only place I can sit where I can see the TV.” Ivy had spoiled herself; she could no longer eat unless she was watching a video of some kind.
“Well, tough shit.” Keith’s head rolled back in the direction of the television. Ivy felt heat rise into her face.
“I’m sorry. Do you think I enjoy staying here? If I had one other person I could stay with, you can bet your ass you’d be my last choice.”
“Ooh—I’m so hurt,” he cried theatrically, placing a hand daintily over his heart. Gritting her teeth, Ivy stepped up onto the sofa and, then, onto his shins, balancing herself as she held the plate under her chin and began to eat her sandwich as if nothing was amiss. Keith snickered, breaking into a throaty chuckle. Ivy couldn't help but join him when the ridiculousness of her own behavior dawned on her. She almost choked on her food for laughing.
“I will hurt you. Just wait,” she warned as she began walking around on his legs, digging her heels into his flesh.
Keith cringed as she stepped on a particularly tender spot. “You should be a masseuse.”