"Not exactly. But Marla from that café down the block told me to come in tomorrow. She said she might have something for me, so I'm keeping my fingers crossed. I spoke to Pete about giving us a little more time with the rent, and he was cool with it. God bless his soul."
"Mhmmm, Goodluck good-looking." She says, her mouth o-ing on a tiny yawn. "I'm sleepy as hell. Cuddles please?" She pleaded, giving me puppy dog eyes she's aware I wouldn't say no to. What can I say, though? I'm a sucker for pretty women. Not that I'll ever tell her, though.
"At this rate, your ass better start paying me for these cuddles; I'm currently unemployed, you know?" I snark, even as I lift the covers for her to slide under. In a few seconds, she was bundled in my arms, clinging to me like my own koala. I smiled to myself, unwilling to admit that I liked holding her too.
"Sing to me? Please?" She begged in a small voice, knowing very well how I felt about singing in general. I wasn't going to talk about it, though. She knew what she was doing, asking while I was high; she knew I'd barely refuse her then, and she took advantage of it. I wasn't mad, though. I was happy to sing to her. This time. So with her snug in my arms, I closed my eyes, began to stroke her hair, and sang a song I'd long since forgotten until that moment:
She's imperfect, but she tries.
She is good, but she lies.
She is hard on herself.
She is broken and won't ask for help.
She is messy, but she's kind.
She is lonely most of the time.
She's all of these mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie.
She is gone, but she used to be mine.
I opened my eyes on the last note to observe Stella's still form and wondered at what I saw and what it meant: There on her face that looked so peaceful in sleep, a lone tear had escaped.