by Cyn Bagley

Created on: June 23, 2007   Last Updated: June 27, 2008

It might have been a daydream or it might have been a ghost. But for sure, it had been one of those weekends - you know, the kind when you are so tired from the week's work that you need to sleep, and sleep, and sleep some more.

I should have had energy. I was young and beautiful with no real need to work. I had a sugar-daddy and one on the side. My days were full and my nights were- well let's not go there.

Mike, my boyfriend not my sugar daddy, was not interested in sleeping. He was night child and could party until dawn. He would stop for a cup of sludge that he calls coffee and then party another twenty-four to forty-eight hours until he staggered back to his apartment. I can testify that he would smell like beer, coffee, and smoke, what you would expect from a bar scene.

That morning when I finally woke up and staggered to the kitchen, I noticed Mike on the couch. Now Mike is not shy. He has stumbled into my bedroom several times after visiting the toilet god and slept on the covers of my bed. He's even crawled into the bed, but I shove him out. He is quite ripe after being a full-scale party animal.

So it was unusual to see him sprawled on the couch.

"What's wrong, " I mumbled. I would check one thing at a time, coffee first ... Mike second.

It was after the first cup that I realized Mike wasn't breathing. Okay, I knew he wasn't breathing because he wasn't snoring. So I called 911. I tried to pump on his chest. No, I didn't have CPR certificate. It had been awhile since I had gotten it. When you dated a man in his twilight years, you expected to learn the important stuff like CPR.

Mike was not in his twilight years.

Anyway, I tried to bend over and smelled him. Yuck. He smelled like beer and cigarettes. I decided not to breath into his mouth. But, it wouldn't have helped anyway. He was stiff, really stiff. Rigor mortis. I was sure that I couldn't help him. Not unless I could bring him back from the dead.

When the police finally knocked on the door, I was heaving. I ran to the bathroom and vomitted. The police kept banging. Finally, I opened the door.

"Yep, he's dead," said one of them, after I showed them the body. I rushed back to the bathroom.

Yea, I am a wimp. Really. There didn't seem to be any blood on the couch, but just to have a body in the room. I know that I would not be able to sleep again.

It seemed to take them forever. They asked me question after question, but heck, what did I know... I had been asleep most of the time. They counted the beer bottles.

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