The Morning Before The Day After

The hangover was still shaking hands with my tongue as I arrived home that morning. It had been a long night and those last few drinks still hadn't finished saying goodbye. Martinis and me had always been friends, but never that close.

Home was a 12th floor apartment on the east side of town near the river. The kind of area the real estate brokers liked to describe as up-and-coming but which the people who lived there knew had up and went a long time ago.

My apartment was much as I had left it the night before or, rather, much as I had found it six years previous. The only changes I had made included painting the woodwork a shade of pink that makes candy floss look tasteful. So much for the artist in me.

There was one difference though. The pillows had grown a head of hair. Soft mahogany hair that curled around the sheets and revealed a neck just begging to be explored. It brought out the Livingstone in me.

"Is that you?" she whispered.
"If it isn't, " I said, "I'm in the middle of an identity crisis".

That's how it is with me. I waste all my best lines on the floozies downtown and leave only the lamest for the women that really matter. And she mattered.

"Come to bed, you dumb lummox, and make me laugh".

Lummox I may be, but I wasn't dumb. Women like her you're lucky to meet once in a lifetime. Usually someone else's. This time it was my turn.

I planned on keeping it that way.