Chapter 1 ~ pg. 2

Wrong. I didn't deserve her. She was too good for me. It'd only been 41 days. And it was time to wallow.

"Bye, I love you."

I hit my head backwards on the pillow three times, then threw off the comforter. I snagged the remote from underneath the couch and blindly turned on the television. The parade filled the screen and I mentally gagged. This had the potential to be the most depressing day in the history of time.

I stared at the large TV. A big floating Snoopy filled the screen. An overly joyous woman commented on this, each affected syllable steaming the cold New York air as it left her mouth.

I pulled on my bear paw slippers and padded to the window.

If it was cold in New York then it was freezing in Maine. The sky was a dark gray and the earth looked frozen, the dew brittle, tundra like, the land preparing itself for the long onslaught of Old Man Winter. The first big snowstorm of the year was expected to start in the late afternoon, early evening. Then everything would be white for the next five months. At least until late April. Old Man Winter wasn't very friendly in the Northeast. In fact, it could be said he was one mean old sumbitch.

I made my way to the sliding glass door and peered out on the bay. By bay, I refer to the Penobscot. The last body of water before the Pond, silent "E's", and bad teeth.

Anyhow, it was early, around eight, but even so, there were a couple brave souls in their sailboats getting one last ride in before the snow began to fall. The water was three shades darker than the sky and lapped idly against the rocky shore. Just off center was the Surry Woods lighthouse. The old tattered lighthouse's light was still visible; a reflective coin on the drab horizon.

Sort of made you want to catch the redeye to the Bahamas.

On this note, I walked into the kitchen, cranked the heat to Bahamian, and opened the freezer. There were five boxes of waffles; Regular, Buttermilk, Cinnamon Toast, Blueberry, and Strawberry. I know, I had a problem. Hi, my name is Thomas and I'm addicted to waffles. Hey, Leggo my Eggo.

I popped two waffles down in the toaster and started a cup of water heating in the microwave. I opened the front door and scampered the ten steps to the paper. It was already half drizzling, half snowing, and I had a feeling the storm was six hours ahead of schedule.

I sat down to the waffles and a cup of steaming apple cider and read the paper. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they read a newspaper. I was a comics, sports, weather, front page, Dow-Jones, Jumble, kind of guy. Alex had been a front-to-back kind of gal. Maybe that's why it hadn't worked out. But then again, she owned the newspaper. So, perhaps it went deeper than that.

I retired back to the couch and turned it to football. Detroit and Minnesota. One of them was winning. I was looking forward to John Madden's Turkey Leg awards, but it turns out he wasn't doing the game this year. Shucks.