Stranger-Hangover

Below is a free write I started last night. The first sentence was originally written in haiku form, but I felt like I had so much more to say.

I hope you all enjoy!

– Dahv

It’s raining cats and dogs and I don’t want to leave my bed. My pillow smells like french fries and the empty Burger King bag is still at the foot of my bed. My class starts in twenty minutes; I won’t have time to take a shower. I don’t even want to try brushing out my hair. Last night I pulled it back in a bun that has now been flattened by my pillow. One strand of hair escaped the hair tie’s grasp and has fallen in front of my eye. The end is frayed and curling upward.

I wanted to pop into the salon after I got off of work last night, but my car was turning into a carcass. Sometimes I blast my radio – even if I don’t like the song – just to blare out my back tires screeching at each stop and timing belt squealing at each turn, moaning as the engine revs.

On my way home from work, I stopped at the gas station. I pulled up to the fifth pump, put the car in park, took out my debit card, turned off my car. Looking through my windshield, I saw a girl walk out of the convenient store with a cup of coffee without a cover. She was wearing a pair of red heels. Her hair was black and pulled back into a bun, bangs were pinned to the side with a red barrette. I wondered if she matched on purpose. She walked over to pump number six where idled a green Honda Civic. With the driver-side door opened, she leaned in and switched her engine off. While leaning in, she lifted her right foot up slightly, bending her knee. I could see up her blue mini skirt; she was wearing pink panties. As she started pumping her gas, I stepped out of my car. I had just gotten out of work twenty minutes ago. I was wearing black slacks, black flats and a black blouse (Victoria’s Secret is so strict).

She opened her gas tank, grabbed the nozzle and pressed the button for supreme. She must have paid for her gas and coffee at once. She stuck the nozzle into her gas tank’s opening, squeezed the lever, rolled her hip to the left – bending her knee – and sipped her coffee. After having her upper lip marked with foam, I realized that she was probably drinking a cappuccino (after sizing-up her waistline, she didn’t seem like a latte-drinker). The foam dripped off her lip onto her chin. She licked her upper lip and rubbed off the rest with the back of her sleeve. Lowering sleeve from mouth, she looked up at me, twitched her right eyebrow and smiled. I lowered my eyes and bit down on my bottom lip before looking back at her and smiling without showing my teeth. She smiled again, showing her teeth.

I now have ten minutes before my class starts. I’m done brushing my teeth – I’ve spit in the sink – and I’m reaching for a towel to wipe my mouth. Still staring in the mirror, with towel in hand, I can see a watered-down line of tooth paste trace my upper lip and vertically down my chin like a goatee.

I smile.

I smile thinking about the chick at the gas station. Smiling, thinking that we are no different.