Page 7 of Driftwood Daffodil

“Ugh.” I grabbed my other pillow and slapped it over my head, in an attempt to muffle the sound.

It didn’t work.

My head throbbed as the song pierced through the fabric covering my ears. I was definitely going to get Memphis back for this. Just wait. The day I painted his room mustard yellow would be nothing compared to my revenge for this.

‘Rub me the right way.’

Why would anyone write a song about this? Who in their right mind thought these lines would make good lyrics? And why the hell would anybody want to sing it?

Keep your rubbing to yourself lady. No one wants to hear that shit.

Except for maybe Simon. Apparently he was all about the rubbing. At least that’s what I assumed after walking in on him and Cindy Fassbender last night – who I lovingly referred to as Fries. As in‘would you like some fries with that’.

The girl had absolutely no shake. Neither did I for that matter, but you didn’t see me adding my side dish to every meal that happened by. She did have a nice chest though, which was more than I could say for myself.

Seventeen years on this planet and my boobs still hadn’t shown up. I wouldn’t mind a couple extra inches either. I was tired of using a stepping stool to reach the top shelf.

Speaking of stepping stools…

I’d kill for that little blue one MawMaw had right now. I could throw it at my phone and maybe even break it, so my vision wouldn’t be assaulted by the horribly painted yellow flowers on it when I went into the kitchen for a snack. Two problems solved in one go.

I got that my nephew was only one, but what little boy wanted flowers on his stool? I’d be doing the kid a favor.

Unfortunately the stool was all the way in the kitchen. That was way too far. If I wanted to throw something, I’d have to use what was at my disposal.

God damnit, that means I have to move.

Or did I?

If I laid here long enough the phone would stop ringing, and I could go back to sleep in silence. That sounded like a great plan to me. And one I was more than happy to follow, if the person trying to get a hold of me, didn’t immediately call back.

Fuck my life.

Didn’t they know I was trying to die in peace? If I could move without the room spinning, then my first choice of activities to do wouldn’t be answering the phone. It’d be to have a shower. I smelled like a mix of bayou water, French fries, and baby powder.

What the hell did I do last night?

Not sure I wanted to know the answer to that, but I did want my phone to shut up.

Grumbling, I slapped my hand down on the pillow over my head and chucked it across the room – which was an epic fail on my part.

My phone wasn’t across the room. It was on the bedside table right next to my head.

The only thing I accomplished was breaking the lamp on my dresser.

“Damnit.” I groaned and rolled over to creak my eyes open.

Vision was not my friend. I had no idea eyeballs could hurt like that until I tried to inspect the broken orange ceramic. My lids scraped across my eyes as if they were made of sandpaper.

Then there was the dryness. Every time I smacked my mouth my lips would get stuck and do this weird joker smile thing.

Why weren’t there sinks in bedrooms? It would save so much time. The first thing I was going to do – once I could think without pain – was invent the bedroom sink. Or tell someone else with more motivation so they could invent it.

The pillow flopped off the dresser and landed on the pile of broken ceramic, causing a quiet chink to ring through the air.

Sighing, I rolled my eyes back that way.

I liked that lamp. Had to wrestle it out of Maw Maw’s hands last week. For a woman well into her seventies she was seriously strong. Or I was amazingly weak. Both options had their merits.

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