What I Did After We Last Spoke

What I Did After We Last Spoke

So I hung up the Skype thing.   And then I was late for my breakfast date.  So I showered and realized I’d left my razor in my gym bag so I went to breakfast with wet hair and stubbly legs and my I’d Get Sleazy With Ron Weasley t-shirt and your dog tags (because I missed you) and drove your Edward Cullen Gray Volvo like a bat out of hell blaring We Were Promised Jetpacks all the way to the restaurant.

Where I met my cute blond friends #1 and #2 who you have always liked, since 1996, when they met you in a bar downtown and used really big vocabulary words which shamed you to going back to college, where you decided to study physics since, I dunno, could that be any more difficult?  Jesus.

I ate my breakfast (eggs, sausage, home fries, coffee) at lightning speed and we talked about a bunch of books you’ve never read.  Oh, also The Hunger Games, which you didn’t finish.  It was a Peeta v. Gale debate, of which you have no stake in, but my Cute Blond Friends talked me into why what happened needed to happen.  I love to talk about books with smart people, especially my Cute Blond Friends.

Then we all hugged and parted.  And I went and put (non premium) gas in your Volvo.  And met Cute Blond Friend #2 for the next act in my Saturday, which was to go to the Riverview Theater and watch a buttload of Harry Potter.

This was very excellent, because there were people in costumes and the whole theater was tricked out with school colors and the bathrooms were labeled “Wizards” and “Witches” and everyone laughed at the same funny parts and cheered whenever something awesome happened (Ron kicking ass at Quidditch) and I got teary when they raised wands after Dumbledore dies (I always do that, I don’t know if you know that).

Then, after sitting there for 99 hours, I had a butt ache.  Plus it was time for the new episode of True Blood.

Drove home, saw a boy on a motorcycle and was reminded of you.  He wore a helmet, because people with a vested interest in protecting their brain assets do this, and jeans, and skater shoes and a backpack, and it totally reminded me of how you used to ride your motorcycle to college, with your jeans flying up your ankles in the wind.  Seeing that boy’s white socks like that makes my heart skate around in my chest.

ANYWAY.  Then Cute Blond Friend #3 came over (why so many blond friends?) and we watched True Blood off my sister’s cable, which was nice, because my sister made us rhubarb crisp.

And I was thinking, poor Adrian, who loves Teh Rhubarb, totally missing out!

And I was thinking, poor Adrian, who mowed over our rhubarb plant and killed it!

And I was thinking, poor HBO, because except for shirtless Alexander Skarsgaard, this episode of True Blood totally blows.

(And I was thinking, poor me, who would really like breakfast with shirtless Alexander Skarsgaard.)

Then I came home with Pablo.  Took a shower, did some dumb junk like brush teeth, take out trash, etc.  Collected my book and phone and computer and went up to bed.  Tried to put sheets on the bed, only there were Queen sheets and they didn’t fit and it took me three tries before I gave up and just laid out a flat sheet.  Goddamn do I hate making the bed!  I wish you would invent some kinda sheet that stays on without you having to grapple with the edges and move all the nightstands and argh.

Then I was on my computer loving up some writing and other junk and then WHOOOSH.

The power goes out.

Fans stop.  A/C shuts off.  Internet connection, broken.  And I’m instantly sweating to death.  It’s so hot that the A/C at full blast can barely keep up.

Find a flashlight by the Grace of Some Coincidental Randomness.  Because Matilda is always playing with the flashlights so they are never in a ready spot for emergencies.  The house is HOT. Even the basement is hot. The basement is full of tiny little toys Matilda has left all over the floor and my feet are being decimated, the death of a thousand tiny stab wounds courtesy of Polly Pockets.  Also, it’s hot. It feels like the entrance to hell.  If the entrance to hell was guarded by all our dirty laundry and a fleet of Groovy Girls, I guess.

So I call my sister and she says, Come over.  You can sleep on our couch.  So I get Pablo off the bed (much whining ensues from this, but he does it) and then at 11:30 we skibble down the street to their house.  Where I read a little of Melissa Marr’s Graveminder by flashlight (which is good, but somewhat creepy, not good for being alone in the dark, but I can’t fall asleep without reading, you know) and then the last thing I remember is the sticky sound of the cat’s claw’s on the couch cushion by my feet.

Then you called at 7:43 and said, Hey babe.  What you been doing?

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