Morning Pages: July 12, 2011

There was a pair of women’s jeans on my apartment floor. I didn’t know where they came from, and I didn’t know what to do with them. I had not fallen asleep hungover, forgotten a wild night with a stranger, a halcyon woman unencumbered by a morning without introduction or pants. My sheets smelled like they normally smelled. A woman would have improved that. When I thought about the number of things in my life that could be improved by a woman, I would have never listed clothes left on the floor.

I sat up, wiped my eyes, and sifted my hands through my hair. I looked down at the pants. My floor was otherwise bereft of slacks, socks, or any clothing. Next to the jeans was key, and a folded piece of paper. I prodded the clues with my foot. The key was heavy, like one owned by successful bankers with expensive, small apartments. I’d only ever seen them in movies. The note was something I needed to pick up. I felt the paper in between my fingers. It was mine, one slice out of a pad I bought for the printer I never used that took up way too much space on my desk.

Writing left by, presumably, a lady, was cryptic and alarming. There were no words (I would have loved to have seen words) and no idea of who had been here. Instead, only a symbol looked back at me; three stars, one after another, stenciled in pencil. I had no idea what that meant.

I picked up the jeans. I don’t think I’d ever held a woman’s pair of jeans before. They were lighter than mine by almost half. The jeans were black, too skinny for any girl I knew. The owner of these jeans was shorter than any girl I’d dated. They appeared to be the jeans of a chic child.

Three stars. I googled. I received a million possibilities. Three stars could have meant anything.

I wasn’t the least bit hungover. I returned from the washroom with a glass of water, eyes focused on the pants and the note. They were in a pile on my bed. I’d felt the need to fold both, to keep them together. They key held the note down. I drank. I felt no more hydrated. My body was fine. I hadn’t been drugged. I remembered ten events before sleep: seven of them involved an internet connection.

My phone was dead. It was in the bottom of my messenger bag next to my wallet and my own set of keys. I’d forgotten about it and let it die overnight. There might be something in there, once it regains life, but I had to have patience.

The annoying red badge above my inbox glowed, as if to tempt me in it’s direction. Two messages were facebook birthday notifications. The third was from Jesi, who wanted to know where I was the night before. The message had been sent at one in the morning, around the time I fell asleep. I crossed her name off the list of people who might have had something to do with this.

Finally, I dressed and left the dorm. The hallway was empty. I locked the door, leaving the new contents behind as I made my way to Linguistics.

July 12, 2011