"I'm going out!" said the Artist hurriedly.

With her sling bag secured, the Artist was about to leave their flat when she saw her flatmate heading towards the front door as well with a backpack in tow. "You going somewhere?" she asked curiously.

The Writer nodded. "Editor. She needs to check on my progress." She shrugged her shoulders and adjusted her backpack.

The Artist made a face after hearing that the Writer was meeting her editor. "That woman who said my food was disgusting?" She scrunched her nose in displeased at remembering the editor.

The Artist remembered the first time she met the Writer's editor. A night with a stern yet beautiful woman, glaring at her as if she killed her cat. After preparing her special baby back ribs with the special sauce for dinner, one of her flatmate's favorite, all she got was a bad comment from the editor.

"She said it was 'bland' not disgusting," the Writer corrected, raising a brow at her flatmate.

"Disgusting, bland, what's the difference?!" The Artist crossed her arms and let out an insulted huff. "She hates me."

All the Writer could do was roll her eyes. "Of course she would. You stained her shirt. Not accidentally, but intentionally dabbed some paint on her shirt sleeve, saying it was an accident," she pointed out casually. "It was a designer clothing."

But the Writer soon regret her choice of words. The Artist dropped her head and at the same time, raised her left arm and right elbow, imitating a sneezing gesture—dabbing, as she came to know. All the Writer could do was sigh heavily.

"Why must you be so childish? " the Writer questioned her flatmate's somewhat childlike mentality.

Dropping the 'dabbing' act, the Artist faced the Writer with a cheery smile. "Why must you be all Squidward on me?" All she got as an answer was a glare. "Anyhoo~" she took out her keys and jiggled them. "Want me to drive you to the publishing house? We can have coffee on the way too."

The Writer cocked her brow when the Artist suggested to give her a lift. "In that sad excuse of a bug?"

The Arist was shocked after hearing her flatmate’s question. For the Writer to call her hard-earned car as a 'bug' was an insult beyond belief. She stomped her left foot and pursed her lips. "Hey! My Voltz is not a 'bug'! It's a Volkswagen Beetle!"

"A beetle is a bug," said the Writer, pointing out the obvious.

"At least it's not a dangermobile like that skeleton of a bike that you ride!" The Artist growled and glared at the Writer as threatening as she could.

The glare though had no effect. The Writer just stared at the 5-foot-tall Artist and mentally compared her glaring flatmate to an angry Corgi. The sudden thought of an angry Corgi Artist came to mind and she couldn't help but smile at how cute it was.

The smile didn't elude the artist. She saw how those lips twitched and curved into a small smile. "Why are you smiling? Apollo smite thee! I'm glaring at you!" She wanted to strangle the writer but she couldn't even reach the Writer’s neck without being tackled by her flatmate first. 'Don't want to repeat the last attempt.'

Clearing her throat, the Writer was once again had her stoic expression in place. Though it was hard to hold it in as the Artist was growling and stomping childishly. "Which reminds me, how could you even reach the pedals of that car of yours?" She eyed the artist from head to toe. "Could your legs... you know... step on it?"

"Of course it—wait..." The Artist gasped in shock after realizing what her flatmate was saying "Are you insinuating that I’m short?! I am not short! You tall person driving a skeleton bike!"

The Writer shrugged her shoulders. "I didn't say you were short. Just you look like a grad schooler." She adjusted her bag and watched how the Artist had her cheeks puffed out. "About my bike, the right term of a bike skeleton is a frame. And no, my Vesperia isn't a frame. It's a Vespa PX." She sighed heavily, and looked at her watch; she was late. "Look, we can argue about your insect of a car or your height but I need to go."

The Writer left the Artist and went straight to the elevator. Following hotly on her trail was the Artist who was grumbling and mumbling curses directed at her.

Both of them arrived at the parking floor and went to their respective vehicles.

The Artist stood before a black 2014 Volkswagen Beetle while the Writer was standing beside a mint green Vespa PX. Both creative women had a frown on their faces, realizing one important detail of their vehicles.

Their plate numbers were showing as the current number coding number.

Both of them couldn't even ride their vehicles to the places they need to go to.

"Sooo..." The Artist turned to the writer who was also looking at her. She smiled and jabbed her thumb towards the direction of the exit. "Want to take the cab?"

The Writer sighed and nodded.

Along the way, they even told the cab driver to go to a drive-thru for coffee before heading to their respective appointments.