Saturday morning greeted me most unexpectedly. I was blissfully meandering through my REM sleep, experiencing something so pleasant my conscious self is unable to recall anything besides the impression of sublimity you only encounter in dreamland, when a jarring, persistent sound screamed repetitiously from the kitchen and pulled me out of my slumber. It was my groggy disposition to curse the sound, cover my head with a pillow, and yell for Lauren to take care of the problem. After all, she was awake already--she’s never been one for superfluous snoozing--and should also be bothered by the sound.
Time passed, however, without a reprieve. Thus I was compelled to leave the safety of my cozy bedsheets and silence the pestering alarm. When I entered the front room and saw the iPad’s alarm screen brightly lit, I was stuck by the peculiarity of it all. It seemed almost like it had been staged. It unnerved me to see this deliberate mise en scene, but not see the set designer. Lauren’s absence struck me, but only for a moment before the Siren’s song of the bedroom beckoned me to return. Zombie-like I turned to the bedroom, eyes half-closed, and clumsily made my way back to the comfort of the mattress.
Before I could make it to the bed, though, I caught a glimpse of a bright orange
notecard right under my feet. I bent down to assess the situation, and was met by two felt-marker-drawn googly eyes staring at me. They instructed me simply to “Look under the bed.” I was confused, but interested. Strangely, these two googly eyes stirred up a curiosity in me that immediately eradicated my somnolence. Under the bed I found another clue, and what appeared to be part of a puzzle, a fragmented message of undeniable importance. That clue led me to another clue, which led me to another. Each clue took me to a different corner of our apartment where a small part of the puzzle had been stashed.
This was fun and all, but it didn’t solve the larger mystery, whose mystique had been building within me as I explored the nooks and crannies of our small apartment: Where was Lauren? Eventually, I found the last clue (which came with a rather decadent looking birthday cake attached) and eagerly assembled the message, hoping it might reveal the whereabouts of its furtive author. While I was thus employed in assembling and scanning the letter, its enigmatic--and I might add stunningly beautiful--creator emerged from the balcony glowing in the morning sunlight and smiling a smile that would make the angels envious.
“Happy birthday,” she said.
“But Lauren, it’s not my birthday,” was all I could idiotically muster in reply.
Lauren insisted that the day of the week was less important than making sure that we had a special day. After she laid out her plans for the rest of the day, we read the letter once more, embraced, and sat down for a healthy breakfast of cake. It was indeed a happy birthday.
