On the first day of Christmas Lola gave to me:
A mixture of illiteracy in relationships, complacency, and insecurity guided me to a ritual of derangement. The setting, the room we shared in the apartment coerced into the corner of a massive grey building that loomed like a November cloud. We settled into our stiff and telling queen size bed, under a fluffy white comforter that foolishly attempted to lighten the mood. My assigned side of the bunk was closest to a plain cold stucco wall. At the foot of the bed a television we should’ve never purchased. On his side, a low mass-produced table that served as a nightstand but most importantly, a charging station for our cell phones. Cell phones should be defined as tiny devices full of gold for girlfriend’s who naively excuse infidelities. At least in this story they are. However, an entire boyfriend slumbered brutishly between said gold and myself.
So, began the ritual. I would wait until the keeper of secrets fell into deep deep sleep. Not the light sleep that could easily be broken by my slithering out of bed, no. The deep deep sleep that allowed me to then slither myself from my stucco landscape to the foot of the bed. Then down onto the brittle carpet, from the foot of the bed, to the table next to my oblivious antagonist. With army crawls so strategic a Lieutenant Colonel would be proud. Then there it was, within arm’s reach, an entire electronic chronology. I swooped it from table with ninja like skill. I laid on the floor with the phone in my hand, where to begin the detective work of the evening? Texts, contacts, social media perhaps? My thought process was interrupted by the sudden stirring of the secret-keeper, my eyes widened with suspense. He turned on his side and continued to sleep. What was I to do if I ever got caught? I hadn’t thought that part through, I had invested so much time in my silent relocation strategy, that I opened a huge area of opportunity when it came to aborting the mission. What would I do? I’ll think about that tomorrow at work, my boss will be -
And suddenly, my area of opportunity became my defeat as I heard a voice demand, “Stephanie* what the fuck are you doing?”
“Going to the bathroom.” I quickly spat out as I stuffed the device down my pajama bottoms, got to my feet, and made way to my alibi.
“Where’s my phone?” The secret keeper demanded in a voice much sterner than a freshly-woken person should be a capable of. His tone offended me, my alibi was so credible I was convincing myself. Maybe I did have to pee. I do drink exaggerated amounts of water. And speaking of exaggeration.
“I don’t fuckin know.” I replied without infraction. He then proceeded to yank my phone off the charger and dial his own number. (Did we know each other’s lock codes? Did we even lock our phones then? The hell if I remember. I’ve done an amazing job of forgetting.) And his phone rang. I recall his phone having the world’s most loud and obnoxious song as a ringtone (I should’ve known then) with an equally annoying light show to accompany it. Bright enough to put the the burning castillo in your rancho to shame… and so my lady parts lit up like a fucking Christmas tree on the 12th day of Christmas. “Oh. There it is.” Was all I could say…
*Name has not been changed to showcase that even the craziest of girlfriends grow up, move out, move on, and thrive.