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Description
You’d always wake up in the other room.
          We were all sleeping in. The five of us still in our suits and dresses, sprawled out on your living room floor. Bodies entwined, dreams intervening, blankets tangled, music on the stereo playing softly all our favorite songs, and the late-morning sun spilling blue light in wavy patterns onto us.
          The room was cold. Snow white-washed the world. It was the kind of Sunday morning when no one was out driving. It was the kind of Sunday when everyone should have been home, still dreaming like we were. (No, the kind of Sunday when everyone should have wanted to be us.)
          The night before seemed like the perfect movie ending; one that every girl hopes for, the one everyone deserves to have at least once in their lives. We were dancing barefoot in the dark, screaming along and not caring who was looking. You and your boyfriend Clark were my dates since I didn’t have one. We walked in, arm-in-arm, you in the middle. And on the dance floor, as your boyfriend grinded you from behind and I shimmied with you in the front, you whispered to me, I’m so glad to be here with my two best friends.

I don’t know if you were just that good at lying, but I do know by noon, you were sleeping in the other room.
          The stereo crooned out songs that made us think of summer; it was to be our mixed tape for our road trip to Ocean City, Maryland when the earth thawed come spring. You and I had planned the trip one Monday morning while ditching school in a secluded booth, surrounded by mirrored walls, at our favorite restaurant.
          The place was a family-owned, old-fashioned, home-cooked place sitting on the edge of the biggest river in the state. You introduced me to it, and I fell in love at first sight. By summer, it would be blossoming with daffodils and daisies and the water would be rushing and lapping against the bridge. But when we made our springtime plans, everything was gray. The tree trunks, the rocks, the thick sheets of ice.
          We shared a piece of cheesecake after our meal of seasoned fries.
          An elderly couple sat down at the table across from ours. The man was wearing a hat like my grandfather used to. You began giggling and clapping your hands. (You always admitted, “I love old people! They just make me happy!”)
          The man looked over at us and winked. “You girls going to buy dinner? Because if you are, you can sit with us.”
          You and I exchanged excited glances.
          “We won’t pay for your lunch,” you squealed.
          “But we’ll most definitely join you!” I shrieked.
          You and I hopped out of our secluded booth and sat down in chairs near the bustling aisle.
          “I’m Ted,” the man said, extending his hand to each of us.
          “And I’m Chiquita, but they all call me Chick,” his wife winked and said with a tone that was as soft as her fluffy silver hair.
          “I’m Audrey!”
          “And I’m Gracie.”
          “I remember when I was young,” Chick sang wistfully.
          “So do I, Chick,” you sighed. “So do I.”

I don’t know how stories are supposed to go, but I don’t think any plot should take you into the other room, where you would sleep in your own bed with the luxury of warm blankets, not hardwood floor and satin shawls.
          We once lay on a sleeping bag in the lobby of the girls’ bathroom at the Starr Theatre where we used to work.. A CD player was hooked up to the wall, and it sat off to the corner, spewing out pretty songs that reminded us of all the fun we’ve had together the last six months. You, Marilyn and I shared take-out from our favorite diner. We sipped lime soda with a hint of special Greek wine from little plastic cups.
          “I don’t know what we’re going to do without you,” Marilyn sighed, bowing her head down to scoop fries covered in ranch and cheese into her mouth.
          “Oh, you’ll do just fine!” I cheered with perky, lying eyes. “Fat Joe will hire someone new and you’ll all fall in love and there will be six of us.”
          “I doubt it,” Marilyn  said, rolling onto her back. “She’ll never belong.”
          “Who says Fat Joe will hire a girl?” I asked.
          “Because,” you declared, standing up and placing your hands on your hips, “I have this theory, and it’s that Fat Joe only hires the most beautiful girls who apply. That’s because when business sucks, he’s going to come up to us one of these days and say, ‘Girls, I’ve got a proposition for ya. You see, business is getting bad and I know these guys. Would you mind if I rent you out to them for the night? You know, to help business out. Do it for me. For the Starr?’”
          It was in that bathroom (no, in that theatre) that life happened. Before we met each other at work, our lives really hadn’t begun. We were drones, programmed to do what everyone else wanted us to. But with each other, we were powerful, all-knowing. We had the strength to overcome everything. We didn’t know fear, and we refused to acquaint ourselves with heartbreak.
          For once in our lives, the world revolved around us. And I know it sounds a little cliché, but when you meet the right kind of people, you sort of become a cliché yourself.

Maybe our friendship was a cliché, but at one o’clock in the afternoon, when the streets finally began to thaw, you woke up in the other room.
          You tip-toed back into the living room, having shed your turquoise dress and donning jeans and a sweater. You walked through us like a maze, careful not to step on an arm or strand of hair. Kneeling down, you softly woke Marilyn. You whispered to her that you were heading out for coffee and asked if she’d care to come along.
          Marilyn never had your agility or tenderness. She trampled all over the three of us left dreaming on the floor. And by the time the mixed tape flipped over to side A for the hundredth time, you and Marilyn were gone, driving the salt-whitened streets, screaming along to songs that made you think of winter, windows rolled down and heat blasting from the vents.

I think our friendship was one of those really bad metaphors, because I woke up in your living room in between Clark and Bo.
          Never had I heard anyone snore so loudly, and never I had felt quite so alone. The house echoed and creaked. I was scared to add to the sounds, but I slowly stood up anyway, smoothing out my baby-blue gown and walked over to a recliner near the picture window.
          Through slits in the cream-colored blinds, I could see the frozen earth, the thin patches of ice, the swirls of snow clouds in the pale blue sky. I watched the shadows of trees magnify on walls, bending like broken bones. I shivered so I wrapped myself tightly in my shawl and rocked myself back and forth in rhythm with the song, though the boys did an awfully good job of interrupting that rhythm.
          I let them sleep. I let them continue their dreams. Their faces were still so it was hard to guess what they were dreaming about. I didn’t even remember my dreams.

They say you never forget someone you love (or have loved), but you forgot to wake me up.
          The night before that Sunday when we owned the world, you and I danced and smiled for pictures and held hands and ran through quarter-sized snowflakes, and called each other best friends.
          And all those nights before when we would stay up late driving down highways or walking through town, just feeling alive.
          When we had just become friends we went to the fair together. Rays of yellow, red and white pierced the blackening sky and carnival rides spun in circles with clouds of smoke enveloping them. You, me, Clark, Marilyn and Bo stood in awe at the edge of the little dirt path that would take us deep into the carnival. We all linked arms and stepped in unison along the road until we became part of the flashing midway lights.
          “What do we do first?” Bo whispered.
          “The beauty of it all is we can do anything we want to do,” you answered. “We can be reckless teenagers for the night.”

One can be a reckless teenager for a night, but it’s the morning when they choose to sleep in the other room and leave for coffee (or for life) that really counts. They tell me you never forget someone you love (or have loved), so tell me, why did you forget to wake me up?

Description
You’d always wake up in the other room.
          We were all sleeping in. The five of us still in our suits and dresses, sprawled out on your living room floor. Bodies entwined, dreams intervening, blankets tangled, music on the stereo playing softly all our favorite songs, and the late-morning sun spilling blue light in wavy patterns onto us.
          The room was cold. Snow white-washed the world. It was the kind of Sunday morning when no one was out driving. It was the kind of Sunday when everyone should have been home, still dreaming like we were. (No, the kind of Sunday when everyone should have wanted to be us.)
          The night before seemed like the perfect movie ending; one that every girl hopes for, the one everyone deserves to have at least once in their lives. We were dancing barefoot in the dark, screaming along and not caring who was looking. You and your boyfriend Clark were my dates since I didn’t have one. We walked in, arm-in-arm, you in the middle. And on the dance floor, as your boyfriend grinded you from behind and I shimmied with you in the front, you whispered to me, I’m so glad to be here with my two best friends.

I don’t know if you were just that good at lying, but I do know by noon, you were sleeping in the other room.
          The stereo crooned out songs that made us think of summer; it was to be our mixed tape for our road trip to Ocean City, Maryland when the earth thawed come spring. You and I had planned the trip one Monday morning while ditching school in a secluded booth, surrounded by mirrored walls, at our favorite restaurant.
          The place was a family-owned, old-fashioned, home-cooked place sitting on the edge of the biggest river in the state. You introduced me to it, and I fell in love at first sight. By summer, it would be blossoming with daffodils and daisies and the water would be rushing and lapping against the bridge. But when we made our springtime plans, everything was gray. The tree trunks, the rocks, the thick sheets of ice.
          We shared a piece of cheesecake after our meal of seasoned fries.
          An elderly couple sat down at the table across from ours. The man was wearing a hat like my grandfather used to. You began giggling and clapping your hands. (You always admitted, “I love old people! They just make me happy!”)
          The man looked over at us and winked. “You girls going to buy dinner? Because if you are, you can sit with us.”
          You and I exchanged excited glances.
          “We won’t pay for your lunch,” you squealed.
          “But we’ll most definitely join you!” I shrieked.
          You and I hopped out of our secluded booth and sat down in chairs near the bustling aisle.
          “I’m Ted,” the man said, extending his hand to each of us.
          “And I’m Chiquita, but they all call me Chick,” his wife winked and said with a tone that was as soft as her fluffy silver hair.
          “I’m Audrey!”
          “And I’m Gracie.”
          “I remember when I was young,” Chick sang wistfully.
          “So do I, Chick,” you sighed. “So do I.”

I don’t know how stories are supposed to go, but I don’t think any plot should take you into the other room, where you would sleep in your own bed with the luxury of warm blankets, not hardwood floor and satin shawls.
          We once lay on a sleeping bag in the lobby of the girls’ bathroom at the Starr Theatre where we used to work.. A CD player was hooked up to the wall, and it sat off to the corner, spewing out pretty songs that reminded us of all the fun we’ve had together the last six months. You, Marilyn and I shared take-out from our favorite diner. We sipped lime soda with a hint of special Greek wine from little plastic cups.
          “I don’t know what we’re going to do without you,” Marilyn sighed, bowing her head down to scoop fries covered in ranch and cheese into her mouth.
          “Oh, you’ll do just fine!” I cheered with perky, lying eyes. “Fat Joe will hire someone new and you’ll all fall in love and there will be six of us.”
          “I doubt it,” Marilyn  said, rolling onto her back. “She’ll never belong.”
          “Who says Fat Joe will hire a girl?” I asked.
          “Because,” you declared, standing up and placing your hands on your hips, “I have this theory, and it’s that Fat Joe only hires the most beautiful girls who apply. That’s because when business sucks, he’s going to come up to us one of these days and say, ‘Girls, I’ve got a proposition for ya. You see, business is getting bad and I know these guys. Would you mind if I rent you out to them for the night? You know, to help business out. Do it for me. For the Starr?’”
          It was in that bathroom (no, in that theatre) that life happened. Before we met each other at work, our lives really hadn’t begun. We were drones, programmed to do what everyone else wanted us to. But with each other, we were powerful, all-knowing. We had the strength to overcome everything. We didn’t know fear, and we refused to acquaint ourselves with heartbreak.
          For once in our lives, the world revolved around us. And I know it sounds a little cliché, but when you meet the right kind of people, you sort of become a cliché yourself.

Maybe our friendship was a cliché, but at one o’clock in the afternoon, when the streets finally began to thaw, you woke up in the other room.
          You tip-toed back into the living room, having shed your turquoise dress and donning jeans and a sweater. You walked through us like a maze, careful not to step on an arm or strand of hair. Kneeling down, you softly woke Marilyn. You whispered to her that you were heading out for coffee and asked if she’d care to come along.
          Marilyn never had your agility or tenderness. She trampled all over the three of us left dreaming on the floor. And by the time the mixed tape flipped over to side A for the hundredth time, you and Marilyn were gone, driving the salt-whitened streets, screaming along to songs that made you think of winter, windows rolled down and heat blasting from the vents.

I think our friendship was one of those really bad metaphors, because I woke up in your living room in between Clark and Bo.
          Never had I heard anyone snore so loudly, and never I had felt quite so alone. The house echoed and creaked. I was scared to add to the sounds, but I slowly stood up anyway, smoothing out my baby-blue gown and walked over to a recliner near the picture window.
          Through slits in the cream-colored blinds, I could see the frozen earth, the thin patches of ice, the swirls of snow clouds in the pale blue sky. I watched the shadows of trees magnify on walls, bending like broken bones. I shivered so I wrapped myself tightly in my shawl and rocked myself back and forth in rhythm with the song, though the boys did an awfully good job of interrupting that rhythm.
          I let them sleep. I let them continue their dreams. Their faces were still so it was hard to guess what they were dreaming about. I didn’t even remember my dreams.

They say you never forget someone you love (or have loved), but you forgot to wake me up.
          The night before that Sunday when we owned the world, you and I danced and smiled for pictures and held hands and ran through quarter-sized snowflakes, and called each other best friends.
          And all those nights before when we would stay up late driving down highways or walking through town, just feeling alive.
          When we had just become friends we went to the fair together. Rays of yellow, red and white pierced the blackening sky and carnival rides spun in circles with clouds of smoke enveloping them. You, me, Clark, Marilyn and Bo stood in awe at the edge of the little dirt path that would take us deep into the carnival. We all linked arms and stepped in unison along the road until we became part of the flashing midway lights.
          “What do we do first?” Bo whispered.
          “The beauty of it all is we can do anything we want to do,” you answered. “We can be reckless teenagers for the night.”

One can be a reckless teenager for a night, but it’s the morning when they choose to sleep in the other room and leave for coffee (or for life) that really counts. They tell me you never forget someone you love (or have loved), so tell me, why did you forget to wake me up?