A Short Story

center]A One-day Autobiography

The Saturday 6-o'clock alarm sends its piercing squeak all around. I sleepily fumble around to mute that always-surprising day-starter. The first attempts to do so are futile; so, I tumble out of bed, deaden it, and stretch my legs. Lingering on for a while, I come to my feet and peep through the window to assure myself that the day has undeniably begun. Wishing that it didn't, I shamble to the nearest door-open enclosure to answer the call of nature.
Around 6:30, I step out and make for the cupboard. I take a lousy gander at the wearables. Having neither the time nor the enthusiasm to try some of them on, I hurriedly muffle myself up with yesterday's habiliments, load my feet in the shoes, and slam the door behind. It's now 7 o'clock.

The car is dragging me to work. On the way, Rosaline's words click my mind open. Her "I miss you that it hurts," "Keep it going," "The warmth inside is real," and "Don't do that to me" flame me with pleasure and jubilation. They fan my selfish desire to share her the rest of my life. Entranced, the grudging Pathfinder wheeled me to work in no time.

I have no class at 8 today. I don't know that; I never did, actually. I solace myself by devouring some bran biscuits and sipping some ready tea. Dogged by untenable feelings of nothingness and futility, I loiter today's classes away. I scurry for the altruistic Pathfinder which dashes me back home anew. Taking a deep breath, I sprawl on the sofa.

"What dream is Rosaline having now?" I ask myself. "Am I there?" I continue. "I wish I was there next to her, hand in hand, heart in heart, and soul in soul." My imagination rips; my eyes ogle; my heart thumps; and soon I am fast asleep. This is the afternoon's siesta. It is not really part of my daily routine; but it sometimes pops itself into it.
It is now 5 o'clock. I wake up, nudged by the serene thoughts I had before. Jovial, I sprint to the kitchen to fetch my preset microwave-cooked meal.

"Does Rosaline like this sort of food?" I soliloquise.

"I hope so because I do," I assure myself.

It is now 7 o'clock, I wonder whether or not Rosaline is awake, whether or not she is thinking of me, and whether or not she will keep so. It is high time I checked my email. I read Rosaline's emails over and over again no matter how straightforward and spontaneous they may be. I just like to feel the throbbing of each word she happens to write. They just commiserate with me on my solitude and they stud my world with her virtual smiles and gapes.
It is bedtime. The devilish alarm is set. I recline my weary and drowsy body on the bed, sending a goodnight butterfly kiss to ROSALINE.