The Little Martian slams my door open on a Sunday morning, pokes his head obnoxiously through the door frame, and blares ‘Stupid Cupid’ until my heart jackhammers against my chest and I jerk out of bed.
“What the duck, LM? It’s a Sunday morning.”
“Morning ends at noon,” he replies with a pointed look at his digital wristwatch.
1:01, reads the phone on my nightstand. Duck.
The weekend washes over me in jerky starts, and I burrow deeper into my powder-blue blanket.
“Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I can’t see you,” the Little Martian reminds me.
Ever the avoidant flamingo, I burrow even deeper into my shores of ice blue, willing reality to knock at my door a little later.
“Too much,” says the Little Martian simply.
I peek an eyebrow out of the side of my blanket, curious as to where this is going.
“Too much—”
He continues.
“Too much vodka, and too many Americanos…”
I nod and burrow back in.
“Too many conversations fuelled by vodka and those damn Americans…” he continues.
“Too many people, and too many stories…”
“Too many conversations where we aren’t on the same page…”
“My page is too much,” I say finally.
“My page is overwhelming and intense and unnecessary. I should just forget about my page. I hate my page. I hate this soppy shit. I’m shutting the book.”
The Little Martian thwacks me over the head with my brick-like blue JBL speakers.
“Shut the duck up.”
“Is this the part where you tell me that I’m perfect just the way I am?”
The Martian snorts.“No, this is the part where I tell you to shake off the self-pitying crap and focus on the important shit again.”
“The important shit?”
“Monday morning. Focus on Monday morning.”
I watch the noonday sun slant curiously across my blanket, the corny music spilling from my speakers, the empty plates on my bedside, and the buzzing chaos on my phone.
“Monday morning.”
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