I long for perfect spring days too.
It was a lazy afternoon. The covers to her bed were scrunched up in the corner of her bed and he was lying across them so that his back arched to the form of the lump of bedding. He was looking down upon her from a top the mountain of sheets and pillows. He liked the way she stared out the window at some unknown interest. “I like the way the sun is shining through the window. This moment is perfect. I can see spring out there beyond the window, and it is creeping in upon us. I can see the wind moving the trees in the distance and I can feel it gently on my legs the same way I can feel the sun’s warmth. The music is perfect. It’s soft and sweet, but has just enough sadness to make this moment heavy with importance,” she said.
He was nodding off. He takes melatonin to sleep at night. If he doesn’t sleep, which is often, he spends the night listening to her mutter in her sleep and spends the day yawning. On this lazy afternoon, he was nodding off and she was bored. “Today is popsicle weather. I think I want a popsicle.” He agreed that it was indeed popsicle weather and that a popsicle would be nice. She proposed a solution to their idling. “Let us embark on a quest for popsicles. But let us do it ‘Mustachioed’.” She grabbed her Halloween mustache leftovers and asked him what mustache he would like to wear. “Are you sure you want to use these?” She had been saving them for a long time, for the right time. “Yes. I want to be Tuesday: The Square. It goes with my complexion.” It was brown like her eyes. “I’ll be Friday: the Sheriff.” It was reminiscent of the Unabomber.
They put on there mustaches and strutted out the door onto the street. First stop was a gas and food shop a block away. They walked up to the window and spoke through the microphone. “Do you have any popsicles?” They kept straight faces because if they smiled or laughed too much the glue on the mustaches wouldn’t hold and the sides would start to peel off. The lady behind the window told them no without any acknowledgement of the peculiar spectacle in which she was involved. They walked on down the street toward a liquor store. People walking by stared. One man exclaimed, “Mustaches!” as if he had made an astute discovery. They nodded. He asked them for a light. They shook their non-smoker heads. They paraded into the liquor store searching the freezer for their treasure. The man behind the counter said, “You are wearing mustaches. Where did you get them.” She said, “Oh I grew this one myself.” “There is something wrong with it on that side.” She said, “It is hard work growing a mustache.” He refused to believe that she grew it herself. He turned to the other mustache wearer. “Where did you get them?” “They are Halloween leftovers.” “Did you glue them on?” “They are sticky on one side.” She was sad that they wouldn’t pretend they were real.
They bought two popsicles. She bought the Push-up kind that she loved as a kid. He bought a kiwi lime flavored one. When they got home they sat on the porch trying to eat their popsicles without getting their mustaches sticky. The neighbors walked by and said hello and cats rummaged the garbage. He turned to her, “I wonder what it feels like when two ‘mustachioed’ people kiss.” She said, “I have been wondering that myself.”
He was nodding off. He takes melatonin to sleep at night. If he doesn’t sleep, which is often, he spends the night listening to her mutter in her sleep and spends the day yawning. On this lazy afternoon, he was nodding off and she was bored. “Today is popsicle weather. I think I want a popsicle.” He agreed that it was indeed popsicle weather and that a popsicle would be nice. She proposed a solution to their idling. “Let us embark on a quest for popsicles. But let us do it ‘Mustachioed’.” She grabbed her Halloween mustache leftovers and asked him what mustache he would like to wear. “Are you sure you want to use these?” She had been saving them for a long time, for the right time. “Yes. I want to be Tuesday: The Square. It goes with my complexion.” It was brown like her eyes. “I’ll be Friday: the Sheriff.” It was reminiscent of the Unabomber.
They put on there mustaches and strutted out the door onto the street. First stop was a gas and food shop a block away. They walked up to the window and spoke through the microphone. “Do you have any popsicles?” They kept straight faces because if they smiled or laughed too much the glue on the mustaches wouldn’t hold and the sides would start to peel off. The lady behind the window told them no without any acknowledgement of the peculiar spectacle in which she was involved. They walked on down the street toward a liquor store. People walking by stared. One man exclaimed, “Mustaches!” as if he had made an astute discovery. They nodded. He asked them for a light. They shook their non-smoker heads. They paraded into the liquor store searching the freezer for their treasure. The man behind the counter said, “You are wearing mustaches. Where did you get them.” She said, “Oh I grew this one myself.” “There is something wrong with it on that side.” She said, “It is hard work growing a mustache.” He refused to believe that she grew it herself. He turned to the other mustache wearer. “Where did you get them?” “They are Halloween leftovers.” “Did you glue them on?” “They are sticky on one side.” She was sad that they wouldn’t pretend they were real.
They bought two popsicles. She bought the Push-up kind that she loved as a kid. He bought a kiwi lime flavored one. When they got home they sat on the porch trying to eat their popsicles without getting their mustaches sticky. The neighbors walked by and said hello and cats rummaged the garbage. He turned to her, “I wonder what it feels like when two ‘mustachioed’ people kiss.” She said, “I have been wondering that myself.”