She snuck up on me while I was sleeping.
I had left the front door open to help circulate the hot summer air that filled my apartment, then I lay down on the couch for a nap. As I lay there resting, waiting for Connie to show up, and who could say how long that would take, I drifted off to sleep. It was a fitful rest, though, because of a large pesky fly that kept landing on my nose, forehead, or cheek, then scurrying about over my face. I did dose off though, and let my automatic reflexes deal with the fly by occasionally swatting at it without opening my eyes or becoming fully conscious.
I do not remember how long I slept, or have any idea of how many times I may have swatted at that fly, or flies, as I slept, but there was something odd about that last swat attempt that woke me up. I had felt something soft impact on the back of my hand and it did not feel like a fly.
I opened my eyes and looked at the back of my left hand but could not see anything unusual there, and it did not hurt in the least. It was sure that I had felt something, something soft, but I knew I had not hit my face or the pillow under my head. My swat had been aimed for just above my nose and forehead area, where the best chance of hitting an annoying fly would be. Okay, I had not hit the fly or my pillow, then what had I hit?
I was still pondering the back of my hand when I heard a moan coming from the floor just a bit forward of where my head was resting on the couch. I tilted my head and was surprised to see Connie just getting to a sitting position on the floor. She was holding a cold bottle of Pepsi in each hand (I used to prefer Pepsi, now I prefer Diet Mug Root Beer), and finding it difficult to get to her feet, so I quickly got off the couch to help her up, still not quite sure how she had gotten there on the floor in the first place.
Naturally, I asked what she was doing on the floor. It turns out that I had not hit a fly, but I sure had walloped Connie. As she tried to sneak a kiss, Connie must have breathed out just as she near my lips, and as I slept, my automatic defense system must have mistaken her breath on my cheek as a fly buzzing my face.
For several years after, Connie teased me about getting backhanded for trying to give me a kiss. For some reason, she never did sneak up on me again.
This story takes place several years before Connie and I broke up back in the late 1990s. If I had to guess when this story takes place, I would say about 1991.
Michael A. Crane, Jr.