A writer from New Zealand writing short stories and thoughts from my head.
Fuck. Why am I like this? Staring at my phone as I lay in bed, my eyes widen with horror. I’m normally late, 15 minutes at the very least. Today I’ve slept in by an hour, on the one day I had to be on time. Screaming out of bed, I jump into all of my clothes, a sharp black dress with heels to match. Mum said to dress nice for the occasion, basically not to be me. I ran a brush through my hair, the comb scratching my scalp raw. A lovely sprinkling of dandruff setting on my shoulders. My hair was notoriously hard to control, a gregarious bushel plopped on my head, looking like it could come alive at any second. I stare at the mirror knowing mum will make some backhanded compliment regardless, not to mention the fact I am an hour late. Scampering up my handbag, I ran out the door, slamming it behind me. Fuck. Are you serious? How could I leave him inside, it was my one job. Please have your keys, I thought as I scramble around my handbag, passing through tampons and loose M&Ms. Eating a blue one I realise they are the crispy ones from three weeks ago, and hate myself more. I hit silver and a jingle, thank fuck for that. Rushing through the apartment, I beeline for the urn, holding him firmly in both hands. Ironically, like my life depended upon it. Opening the passenger side of the car, I place Dad down and strap him in. It seems ridiculous to put a seat belt around my dads’ ashes, but I am an hour late and need to at least have brought dad.
Falling For A Friend
Arriving early was not something I was well practised in. I approached the house with anticipation, the type that comes with New Year’s eve. The immense expectation of what is coming and signing off from a year I would genuinely like to forget. A promise of a better you, a more satisfying year to come. So no pressure for a great night at all then, I thought. I rang the doorbell, “Hey babe, come in”, I follow behind and was lead into Greg’s kitchen. He was the one who lived here and Racheal was his girlfriend. The kitchen was in pristine condition, just the way Greg liked it. “Hey mate, how’re things?”, Greg said warmly, extending his hand for a shake. “Yeah all right”, I said rather softly, a small smile across my face. I was rather nervous about tonight. Let alone the high expectation of having a nice night, but also I knew Sarah would be there. At least I looked good, I’d been to the barbers, bought a new, crisp suit and was looking fresh. Greg cracked a can of my favourite IPA, extended it out to me, “beer?”. Fuck it, why not, it is New Year’s eve for fuck’ sake. Racheal poured herself a glass of wine and sat down at the large oak table. I sit next to her, “you look nice”, she said, I smiled in return. “Not trying to impress anyone, are we?” she smirked, trying to wind me up. They both knew about Sarah and me, the only two who did. I looked down at my beer, “no, no”, I blurted tapping the can. “Just trying to look nice”. Sam walks over to the table, stepping away from the boiling stove for a hot second, “you are so full of shit sometimes”. I look up, wide-eyed, acting with disbelief, “what I’m serious!”. Although I wasn’t, I had absolutely looked as nice as possible for one reason, Sarah.