Misc. Scrap 1a

On January 2nd, some people do not have to go to work, and other people would not go even if they didn’t have a vacation day.  In a house one block removed from Main Street lives a woman who is not either of those kinds of people.  She is one of that proud race known as “The Entrepreneur”, which does not receive a magical paycheck from the aether above, but writes her own paycheck from the goods and services which she provides. There is no “vacation pay” for her, and thus on a day like January 2nd, there is no vacation; neither was there on days like December 24th, or December 26th, or January 1st.  To most everyone in the world, someone else works on those days.

To her, she is “someone else”.

Her body shuffles under the assorted sheets and blankets of her bed as her brain pulls itself out of the cocoon of unconsciousness cell by cell.  She groans softly, emitting something reminiscent of a cat’s purr, and reaches for her clock radio.  The neon blue numbers are a blur to her eyes; she squints one eye, then the other, before reading quarter ‘til five.  Somewhere in her torpor a few conscious brain cells send off a message to the rest of the brain, asking if the alarm has rung yet, and if so has she hit the snooze button yet.  Finding no other useful part of the brain awake yet, the overachievers do their best to warn the woman that she needs to get up.  It’s a hard-fought battle that lasts another eleven minutes—proving to the awake portions of her brain that she had not hit the snooze button—but before 5:00 A.M. graces the liquid crystal display she begins to throw off her covers and sit up.

It is at this point when she realizes that someone is in her bed that should not be there.

She freezes as she feels the touch of someone else’s skin on her own, and only just now notices the sound of faint breathing next to her ear, accompanied by the smell of alcohol.  When she attempts to move away, she is again surprised to find that somehow this interloper’s arm is draped across her shoulder.  Rubbing the bridge of her nose with one hand, she lightly grabs the encroaching wrist with the other and moves it off to the side, like another person might pick up the wad of hair collecting in their shower drain, and slips out of her bed.

The wood floor nips frigidly at her feet as she moves away from the bed, nearly tripping over an empty bottle underfoot.  She picks it up and sniffs the lip, before letting it dangle at her fingertips as she looks at the mystery person on her bed.  Even with the room lights off, the reflection of the street lights in the snow outside are enough to tell her that it’s a girl, probably early twenties, short black hair, and stark naked except for a pair of black and blue striped socks.  A hazy white pile that might be her underwear lies at the foot of the bed, but the rest of her clothes are nowhere to be seen.

“Daddies don’t let your daughters grow up to be frat partiers,” she sighs, shaking her head and turning her back on the sprawling bare-skinned girl.  She quickly dresses her own skin, buttoning up a tan pair of jeans and orange polo, then grabs a few hair ties and stuffs then in her pocket for when she gets to work.  She puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head disapprovingly at the girl again, wondering whether she “should” or “shouldn’t” before flipping on the room light and stepping over to the side of the bed.  The nude girl squints her eyes and looks hazily upwards.

“Mmmm…  Oohh, yooou’rrre mush prettier wheh lights are on,” she coos sleepily as she turns to face her, either unaware or unapologetic of her shameless display.

“Thanks,” the woman replies flatly, before unapologetically tipping the mattress on its side and sending its contents to the ground three feet below with a loud clunk.

{This is something random that just popped into my head and stuck there about three weeks ago, so I figured I’d write it down.  Tune in tomorrow for the not exactly all that thrilling conclusion.}


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