The Morning After

The Morning After.

(by Anne Maybus and Howard Chapman)

She was in one of those moods……  Trying to decide which hair style would go best with her pyjamas. Perhaps it was lucky she’d found her favourite old tiger-striped pyjamas lying on the floor because the wild bed hair was a perfect match. In fact, it was probably the best her hair would get all day.  Yes, she’d leave the comb right where it was; stuck in the knot on the side of her head.  Good look.  Artistic, almost.

The place was quiet.  Too quiet.

On the kitchen table lay the pizza box holding the severed pieces of last night’s dinner. The perfect breakfast choice for today. Eating absentmindedly, she looked for the coffee pot. Naturally it was sitting in the corner doing nothing. Like everything else.

Oh my god, what was wrong with her mouth?  Racing to the rubbish bin she spat out the pizza.

Bloody men.  Bloody hot pizza.

As if her mood wasn’t fiery enough, now it was chilli-flavoured and deadly.

Where was he, anyway?  The lounge was as empty as the kitchen. (Although her fridge totally won the emptiness battle.) Of course, she knew the answer to that question.  He was gone.  They were always gone in the morning. Not even a “thanks for a good time.” Not that bed had been much fun, if she was honest with herself. She’d been bored after the first few minutes.

“Don’t think about It,” she told herself, feeling her anger rising. She knew if she kept thinking about him she’d break something.  And really, there wasn’t a whole lot left worth breaking.

What the hell was scratching her head?  Oh damn. The bloody comb was still there. Well there was no point in yanking at it. The knot wasn’t budging and neither was the comb.

What was taking the coffee so long to brew this morning?

Wandering back into the kitchen, she realised she hadn’t even turned the coffee maker on.  She wouldn’t turn anything on the way she looked right now, so the coffee machine was totally within its rights to ignore her.

Perhaps the morning TV shows would calm her down. Nothing like a bit of mental sedation to start your day, hey?  As she sank down, her hands felt something stuck down the back of the couch. Along with a few crumbs plus an old tissue. Ah, it was a comb. She sat back, getting comfortable and grabbed the remote.  A little channel flicking took her to a dopey looking show with dopey sounding people arguing with each other. Perfect. Nothing like watching someone else have a bad day, too.

She began trying to comb her hair again, deciding to start on the other side, excavating another knot.  With a sigh of exasperation, she realised this comb was stuck, too. Ah well, at least her hairstyle was beautifully balanced now.

And what luck! There was some wine left in last night’s bottle, still sitting on the coffee table. How could she have let that happen? Hm, probably in the mad rush to the bedroom.

She lay against the arm of the couch, sipping straight from the bottle, combs jauntily askew. Today might be OK, after all. Things were looking up.

Suddenly the front door flew open, door handle bashing into the wall with a thud.

He was back! He stood there, bread, milk and eggs in hand, staring at the vision in front of him….