Fun fictional fragment (woke up tues to find my life is a romance)

[lobelia321]

I woke up on Tuesday morning to find my life had turned into a romance overnight.

I looked down at my body. It was clad in a clinging satin nightgown. I did not ordinarily wear clinging satin nightgowns. I wore oversized T-shirts bought in the three-for-one bargain bin at Woolworth's. All my oversized T-shirts were in the wash because I had been doing my whites for the past week. All my coloureds languished at the bottom of the laundry basket.

(There was a reason I had been doing my whites. I won't go into it right now.)

So I was wearing the satin nightgown. The satin nightgown had been a present from my demented sister-in-law last Christmas. My demented sister-in-law reads Mills & Boone and Harlequin. She watches soaps while knitting babygros for her secretary friends (or rather, her pregnant soon-no-longer-to-be-secretary friends) and snacking on rum-filled Belgian chocolates. She gave me a pink satin nightgown and I smiled and mumbled something or other, and I stuffed the satin nightgown in the bottom drawer of a kitchen cupboard, and that's where I found it on Monday night, or rather in the early hours of Tuesday, hunting through the house for any wearable items.

I had a dozen fluffy white towels and two score white knickers (I have a lot of knickers; I keep running out of clean ones so I buy a new five-pack at British Homestore) and five sets of white bed linen but not a single unsweaty pyjama-like garment.

The satin nightgown sat in a green plastic colander. It was still in its vacuum-wrap.

It fitted. It was very clingy. I wore it with a pair of petal-white knickers.

The other pair I found myself possessing on Tuesday morning was a pair of aquamarine eyes.

I looked in the bathroom mirror, and the mirror looked blearily back. A sheen of mist obscured my reflection because I left the shower to run hot while using the loo and filing my nails and by the time I was vertical again, the entire bathroom was like a steam sauna.

Through the hot fog, my eyes looked at me, and their irises were aquamarine.

Not blue. Not grey. Not even azure.

Aquamarine.

I blinked.

They were still aquamarine.

I blinked again. The stinging sensation on my retina reminded me of something, and then I remembered what it reminded me of. The night before (Monday night) I had inserted aquamarine show contacts into my eyes.

(Why had I done this? It's a long story that I may go into at some later point.

Or not.

It has to do with the words 'party', 'make-up' and 'supermodel'. I need say no more.)

I had a headache (hangover). I had black streaks under my eyes (lack of sleep). I had autumnal chestnut locks. I had aquamarine eyes.

Ordinarily, my hair is straight and nondescript blonde. Now it was autumnal. Ringlets hugged my temples and neck. Steam hissed on the bathtub floor.

The bell chimed. I looked down at my nightgown. I stumbled down the stairs and opened the door.

On the pavement outside stood a tall, dark and handsome man.

He seemed to think he belonged to me.

At least, judging by the way he swept me into his strong manly arms and planted a firm yet tender kiss on my steamed-up lips.