By Rachael Abrams
That night was the first night she hadn’t done drugs in a while. She might have needed them to fall asleep, sometimes, usually, almost always, but not tonight. She contemplated whether or not she should text him. It’s too early, she thought. He’s probably still asleep. And of course that got her mind drifting to his beautiful face while he was asleep. To say he was angelic-looking couldn’t cut it, because she’d seen some monsters, and there was once a point in time when she thought the same of them, even in their disgusting, grunting manly slumber. Everyone is an angel if you want them to be.
His face was different. It was flawed, sure (his skin had seen better days, and living in a shitty off-campus house with ants, termites and black mold didn’t help), but he was still. A nose-breather through and through, and in the best possible way…silent. He was an angel if not for his silence in sleep. He reminded her of calmness.
She, on the other hand, had been told otherwise by past boyfriends that she was “not a snorer, exactly… just when you’ve had a few drinks in you. Then, sometimes, yeah, you’ll snore. It’s not bad though – it’s super cute! I promise!”
She’d only heard this by her last two boyfriends, which led her to believe that her health was deteriorating quickly. She’d seen changes in the last two years of moderate smoking that she didn’t want to see: yellowing teeth, bouts of wheezing, and now, the final straw: snoring. Because this kind of thing was unacceptable in her book, she knew she’d have to change her habits; make a change. So the next morning, she woke up and stole fifty dollars from her mother’s purse and drove to the gym to re-open her membership.
Rachael is a self-hating freelance writer that can bite through most things. She likes comedy writing, is an HBO enthusiast, and master of making inappropriate remarks seemingly on cue. She hates the heat and would probably live in an igloo if it were cold enough. You can find her on most social media, including her Twitter here.