She was (or rather she wasn't) a girl. She did (or rather she didn't) have hair that seemed to have floated off a blooming cherry blossom and landed on her head. Her eyes were (or rather weren't) the color of the most beautiful Blue Screen of Death that you have ever seen.
I met her at a bar. It was my birthday, and was wading through another beer when she sat down on the stool beside me.
"Mind if I join you?", she asked. Her voice flowed from her lips, through my ears, and into my brain, which, upon hearing her heavenly music, seized up and had no idea how to reply. This left the job to my heart and balls. My balls spoke first,
"Guhhhh..."
I stared at her wide eyed as saliva threatened to dribble out of my mouth. To make sure my balls didn't do anything too brash, my heart stepped in with the first thing it could think of,
"You're pretty."
She giggled through a closed fist, a sign that she was either interested or thought I was a complete moron. Or idiot. Or both. Now my heart, trying to act like a brain and backtrack on its earlier statement, stammered through introductory phrases like a doodling high school student in English class being asked what the meaning of life is.
"Uh, I mean, um, I, um..."
She giggled again, this time without a closed fist. My heart, seeing that pretending to be a brain wasn't the right move, and that it was all out of possible non-giggling options, shut my mouth and prayed for a miracle. She was that miracle.
"So, why is a guy like you doing at a dive bar at 11:30 at night?" She asked again, as the same voice that shut down my brain reactivated it with its strange powers. My brain, now fully resurrected, was able to continue operation, albeit only slightly drunk. It started with a simple straightforward answer.
"Itsh my birthday, and nobody hash wished me happy birthday yet." My slurring of words would make the Oxford dictionary rip its pages out.
"Well then, I'd best fix the fault of society and wish you a happy birthday..." My heart and balls were too busy grinning at her Blue Screen of Death eyes to notice the hint that I should fill in my name. My brain, who was at least trying to pay attention to what she was saying, answered, only slightly drunk,
"Porter"
"Porter," she repeated, "Happy Birthday Porter." She raised her glass, and I raised mine, nearly falling off my stool in the process. I blacked out after that, remembering only this of her voice,
"Stars shining bright above you,
Night breezes seem to whisper "I love you",
Birds singing in a sycamore tree,
Dream a little dream of me."
It was already what seemed like late morning when I woke up to the worst headache of my life. I pulled away covers and walked to the bathroom. I was only when I walked into a wall did I realize I wasn't in my apartment. I looked down to read the time on my watch when all I could find was her phone number on my arm. A quick glance at the window revealed that it indeed was late morning, and that I was indeed late for work. I rushed around the bedroom, gathering my scant belongings, then walked into the kitchen to find her cooking french toast. I love french toast.
"Leaving so soon?" she asked, silken voice threatening to turn off my brain like it did the
night before. She was wearing undergarments as pink as her hair, and it took a lot of effort not to say yes and miss work. As my brain was still recovering from the double whammy, it was only able to nod. She giggled and turned the french toast towards me. The scent of it was enlightening. I could have been able to achieve nirvana with that french bread if I weren't already late for work.
