Waving with completely fake fondness

On past New Year's Eves, I have often reflected fondly on the goings-on of the past twelve months. Not tonight.

Good riddance, 2004.

Six Months Ago Moment

I'm looking at the way he has his hair flipped over one side of his scalp; it's umkempt yet smooth enough to fall almost neatly next to his cheek. It's light brown, but in the late afternoon sunlight it's almost blonde. We're sitting on his roof and I'm telling him things, random things, like the way my mom says "mmhm" sometimes for no apparent reason. I don't know if he's listening or not. It doesn't matter. I feel like sharing whatever stream of consciousness comes to mind, and today it doesn't feel like it's terribly important that someone intently listens to every word. We watch birds fly over our heads and listen to the boys next door get ready for a night of drinking after a day of work. Our interaction is tentatively comfortable, with occasional long pauses that don't feel awkward to me. Maybe they do to him, but he's not making a move to go anywhere.

I know I won't see him again for a long while after this, and that too doesn't matter. Our moments together are only moments, not the promise of something stronger or longer, and I can make peace with the knowledge that they stand alone in time.

Commercials I Hate, #1

That maudlin piece-of-crap Yasmin birth control commercial.

We start out with Pretty Girl on a date with Supreme Jackass. She looks disgusted. Next she's on a date with Another Jackass. Cue a second look of contempt from Pretty Girl (heretofore known as PG, for typing and readability purposes). Then Speeding Jackass charges up to the curb in his sport utility Wrangler at the end of the date, seemingly dancing in his seat to the neverending party in his mind (or pants? who cares). PG manages a queasy, thank-god-I'm-still-alive grin (but I personally detect a hint of "teehee, that was almost fun").

And then...

After all these wrong choices, she finds him. Mr. Preppy. He's cute, he's bashful, he shoots her "aw shucks" looks, which she returns in kind while they sit in his car, reluctant to say farewell. Then they take about a year to get that gentle, no-tongue-involved first kiss out of the way. Mr. P gets out of the car, walks around the back (which PG follows in the rear-view mirror with her doe-eyes), and comes to the side to open PG's door while she waits demurely biting her lip in the passenger seat.

They stroll up to her front door holding hands, her dress flowing attractively around her legs. At the front door they exchange more awkwardly darling looks and take another year to briefly touch lips again, both smiling shyly as they lean in toward each other for that sweet, meant-to-be moment.

I hate this commercial. It's got eight-too-many delicate looks that convey "you're everything I ever hoped to find!" and two-too-many "I'm nervous, and he's dreamy" lip-nibbles. I want to bang PG and Mr. P's heads together.

And I tell you what, she's not gonna need any of that birth control if they keep on kissing that way.

Quiet Night

I feel like no one is at home.

There is a photo of someone I do not know:
Unsmiling, foreground.
Papers stacked haphazardly on a mostly barren bookshelf.
A phonebook.
Cough medicine, brand X. Red.
File folder. Blurry sticker on the back.
Gray computer tower. Maybe humming imperceptibly.
Blank cds on a spindle.
Dark curtains.
Fake wood paneled walls, unadorned.

Someone coughs in the dark.