Stan

          Stan sat up, and realized that he wasn’t awake. Well, gradually realized. His head was fuzzy, but malt liquor at 1 in the morning always brings regret. Evidence of the party the night before lay scattered around his small New York apartment. A strange stain on the wall opposite his bed caught his attention. It was a strange dull purple against the faded brown paint of his walls. Looking at it reminded him of vomit, which led to further reminiscing of his late-night excesses. Shutting his eyes for a moment, Stan tried to fall back asleep. It was then that he remembered the reason that he was semi-conscious. A burning pain behind his pelvic bone drove him out of bed and into the bathroom.
          His bladder relieved, Stan could now think a little bit better. Which is why he was startled to find a woman in his bed. She was petite, a brunette, with a smooth, unwrinkled face that told him she was in her twenties. Feeling confused and uncertain, he approached the bed, then stopped. Working its way through his swamp of alcohol-induced brain mush was a memory. It was a romantic comedy, a movie he saw back when taking a girl to a chick flick was a required, twice monthly ordeal in his family. Recalling a certain scene, Stan backed out of the room, heading toward the kitchen.
          Passing a small analog clock on a haphazardly placed table, Stan realized that it was 4 o’clock. 3 hours of sleep. Not much, but about normal for his fast-paced, competitive world of Internet entrepreneurship. The truth is, oftentimes he couldn’t sleep because of his memories, haunting him always. Memories of faces, places, birthdays, pain, happiness, a smile, a scowl of disdain. He kept them all, helping and hurting, a thorn in his side pinning his soul to his limbs. Without their mixed blessing, he didn’t know how to live.
          Reaching the kitchen, Stan stretched out his arm and grabbed a bowl.  What to make? Cereal was obvious, but not special. Putting the bowl back, he picked up a pan. Scrambled eggs was the answer. It showed care, but wasn't to hard. Looking in the refrigerator, Stan was disappointed. He retrieved the bowl.
         Cereal finished, Stan walked back to his bedroom. He checked his reflection in the hallway mirror, then thought better of it. His thick brown hair was sticking up at odd angles, and his face showed evidence of some unfortunate circumstances from the party. He went in his restroom, splashed water on his face, and fell asleep.
         When he woke up, she was gone. In the kitchen, the cereal lay untouched. His apartment was just as messy as it had been, so Stan began the long process of restoring it to his middle-aged bachelor standards of perfection. His job, always waiting, glowing on his laptop screen, captured his attention for the rest of the day. In the end, it was almost like the last night hadn't happened. But, that night, Stan lay awake in the darkness, remembering the bowl of cereal.