Moving on with your day

The upside of discovering your reality bending powers on a weekend is that you have plenty of time to experiment with your hot neighbor who is now hopelessly devoted to you. The downside is that you still have to do everything else you would normally do on a weekend, only now you have less time to do it because of the aforementioned hot neighbor.

Because of your busy work schedule, you usually do all your shopping, housework, laundry, gaming, and reading on the weekend. If you’re smart, you get most of the chores done on Saturday and relax on Sunday. Looking at the clock, it’s now well into the afternoon and if you don’t get started now, you’ll have a busy day tomorrow, which is the last thing you want before another busy week at work.

Laundry is the largest time commitment, so you decide to do that first. You scoop the small pile of clothes off your bedroom floor and dump them in a laundry basket, then haul the basket downstairs to your building’s laundry room. It’s only three flights of stairs to get to the basement, but you’re still panting by the time you get there… only to discover that all of the washers are already in use. You let out a small curse.

You hear steps in the hallway, and a moment later your downstairs neighbor Mrs. Franopoulos steps into the laundry room with her own basket. The middle aged woman looks at you, looks at the running washers, and mutters something in Greek. She sets her basket down and crosses her arms.

“This is what I get for waiting until Saturday to do laundry,” she says.

You chuckle. “This is what I get for sleeping in,” you lie.

She points at your basket, which is only half full. “Is that all you have to do? It is not a full load.”

“Yeah, but I work long all hours all week so I have to do laundry on the weekend. Can’t miss it.”

“Here,” she says, extending her arms. “You give it to me. I will do it with my laundry. No delicates in here, yes?”

“Oh, that’s all right.” You try to wave her off, but she’s surprisingly strong for a woman of her stature, and soon she has your laundry basket and is sorting your whites and darks into her own basket. You’re not really sure how that happened.

“You can come pick it up from my apartment tonight. I will make dinner.”

“Mrs. Franopoulos, that’s really kind of you, but I-” you try again, but she cuts you off.

“No, it is no trouble. You will come have dinner. My daughter is joining us.”

You go to protest again, but a thought crosses your mind. Mrs. Franopoulos can’t be older than 60, maybe 50, and her olive skin and sharp features still make her a striking woman. If she has a daughter, then that daughter is likely around your age, and if she looks anything like her mother then she’s a very pretty woman. This could work out well for you.

Of course, the daughter could also take after Mr. Franopoulos, who is almost as round as he is tall and wears too much cologne.

The last thought you have is that a free home cooked meal sounds pretty good today.

“Of course, Mrs. Franopoulos. Thank you. I’ll see you tonight.”

With your laundry now taken care of by your neighbor, you decide to run out to the store and do your shopping for the week. You’re not much of a cook, and more often than not you’ll just get takeout for dinner, but you’re always sure to have some basic ingredients on hand. You also grab sandwich bread and deli meat to make your work lunches.

It occurs to you that it would probably be rude to show up to dinner empty handed. You pick out a red wine that is neither cheap nor expensive, second guess yourself, and grab a white wine instead.

While you’re waiting in line for the checkout, you feel a tap on your shoulder. Turning, you recognize Elise, a former coworker from your last job. She’s tall and slender, only a bit shorter than you, with straight blonde hair that has a bit more silver in it than the last time you saw her.

“Hey, I thought that was you!” she says. “Good to see you!”

She leans in for a hug and you follow. She’s always been a friendly person, which made her pretty effective at her job.

“Good to see you too,” you say. “Are you still at the old firm?”

“Yeah, I actually just got promoted! You’re looking at the new VP of Human Resources!” Elise beams.

Of course she’s doing well. Elise always had a knack for working with people, and you hadn’t been surprised when your old employer had kept her on staff during the layoffs.

“That’s great news,” you say, and you mostly mean it. Her smile is still dazzling, and you’re reminded of an old crush you used to have on her when you worked together. Of course, those feelings are long buried.

Aren’t they?

“How about you? Still working in HR?” Elise asks.

You nod. “Yeah. I got a job with a major tech company a couple months after the layoffs. I’m in charge of hirings and department transfers, so not too much of the legal stuff, thankfully. I’m not a VP, though.”

She slaps your arm playfully. “You’ll get there, I’m sure.”

Yeah, you definitely still have a crush on her.

“Actually, it’s funny I ran into you,” she says. “I’m having a small get together tonight, to celebrate the promotion. You should come by.”

You pause to think about that. “I’m not sure. After the layoffs…”

“I get what you mean. I haven’t really kept up with the people who were let go, it just felt too awkward. But it’ll be mostly new faces at the party! We had a lot of turnover during the pandemic. I don’t think you’ll run into anyone you don’t want to see.”

You weigh the options in your head. Finally, you say “I already have dinner plans. Can I text you afterwards and let you know if I’m coming by?”

“Of course!” Elise says. “You still have my number, right? Hope to see you there!”

After shopping, you head home to take care of the rest of your housework. You’re very aware that you’re a single man who lives alone, and you do your best to not be a stereotype, keeping your living space clean, organized, and presentable. You don’t go on many dates, at least you didn’t before you got this weird power, but you never want the appearance of your apartment to be the reason you don’t invite a woman home with you.

As dinnertime approaches, you change into a more presentable shirt and pants, comb your hair, and head downstairs to the Franopoulos’ apartment. Mr. Franopoulos answers the door, just as short and fat as you remember him, and gestures you inside. Mrs. Franopoulos steps out of the kitchen and embraces you, planting an uncomfortably wet kiss on your cheek. She accepts your bottle of wine graciously.

“Come, come. We will eat soon. My daughter is in the living room. Please, sit,” she says, taking your hand and guiding you further into the apartment. “Here, this is my daughter Sofia.”