The last time I wore this shirt he kissed me bye at 4:27 on a Monday morning. He shot me a “none of that” warning look as my smile started to crumple, and as I slid out the door into the cool morning breeze our perfect 9 hours together ended. “I guess I’ll see you when I see you…” he’d said.
It is now 8:27 on a Friday night and here I sit; eating apple jacks, and reminiscing, and wondering how I could have forgotten to wash this shirt because it still smells like his room.
My neck has finally had enough and is now spiting me for the many nights I’ve slept on a flat pillow. I can’t decide if I’m more pissed off that I can’t turn my head to the right or that the main source for this silly newspaper story I’m writing won’t call me so now it will hang over my head all weekend.
As fate would have it my favorite pair of broken in jeans now has a small, but ever-growing hole on the inside right thigh. Looks like another one bites the dust. Maybe I should quit eating apple jacks?
