Naked

No not that kind of naked. He's not Tudor. *shudder*

He came into the room in the (relatively) early morning light. He had been gone a long while, doing whatever boys do in the bathroom, and I had been sleeping soundly.

I thought he was getting ready for work at the VeryLargeGiftmasStore (I think they MIGHT still sell a few books too. They DEFINITELY sell VeryAttachedCoffeeStore Coffee Makers, enough to block some essential stairs and cause a fire hazzard. We would all burn so quickly! But I digress.

He said "I did something stupid."

My eyesight is very bad without glasses (for example, I don't go renting death machines and driving them around southern Ontario when I lose my sight), and there were morning "eye crispies" getting in the way so I couldn't see him clearly. I tried to focus very intently.

"Oh no!" I gasped.

"Yep." He replied. "I've ruined my be-yard."

"Not again!" I was distraught. I love the beard. Peter Griffin says everybody should grow one (I hear that Ainsworth's is majestic).

"Why did you DO that?"

"It was an accident, note to self: drink coffee before turning on beard trimmer."

I decided it was best to try and look on the bright side of the situation. "It'll grow back." In my head I was calculating just how long it might take to return to its true awesomeness. I'm thinking maybe by next weekend, I'll keep hope alive.

I laugh and say "you look like you're 18." Pause. "Oh god, I TEACH 18 year olds. I'm in your bed, I feel like such a creep-o." I hide under the covers and he comes over to kiss me goodbye before wrapping a scarf around his newly naked face and trudging off to suffer through eight hours of really poorly re-mixed Giftmas music.

"Goodbye Miss," he says.

That's when I stopped speaking to him. Conversation will resume when the beard returns and I am no longer in danger of being hauled away or fired for having inappropriate contact with a minor.