A new series of beginnings of short stories/novels that may never actually be written.
Number one of one.
My eyes open to see a pair of twinkly eyes staring back. A quick examination of the accompanying face acknowledged vague memories of the previous night. The lips on the eyes are moving, but I am more preoccupied with finding my clock to take the morning measurements.
Six was the last time noted the night/morning previously. Eleven now. Five hours of sleep. Remember to nap before dinner.
The lips move again. My time demon lulled, I struggle to listen.
" ... birthday."
"Mm? Um. How old is she?"
"She who?"
"Madonna?"
"What?"
"You said it's Madonna's birthday."
"No. It's my birthday."
"Oh. Um, did I know that last night?"
"No. We didn't really talk that much."
"True. So, um, happy birthday."I'm doing everything I can to quell a panic attack, but birthday boy doesn't know this. A survey of the situation confirms my concerns. A little heavy set (like), possibly latin (like), hairless (don't hate), stretch marks from a chubby phase as opposed to stretch marks from working out (concerned), cleanly shaved head (ambivalent), and those twinkling eyes.
The eyes scare me with their glimmer of affection. Combined with the warm nostalgia that might come from a birthday hook-up, all the danger signs are present. My decision is made. Birthday Boy has to go.
