Handmade with Love

Chapter 1: John Lennon

"Marie, I've come to a conclusion. It may not be my best yet, but god damnit anyway, it's a helluva one."
She burst into the room clutching a pink porcelain mug, spilling lukewarm quadruple creamed coffee all over my new shag carpet. If my day was getting any worse, I knew this wouldn't be the end of it.
"Well what is it sweet cheeks?"
"I think Thomas is dating a tranny"
"Sweetheart, I've got ballroom dancing at twelve, if you wanna go into a spiel over who did who, I'm not hearing any of it."
I mulled it over, and decided not to say anything.
Marie was a woman with power. Dark raven hair; always in an updo, pseudo hot pink polish on her nails, and walked with as much class as a six-figure-a-year business man. Too bad she didn't have the grace to get away with anything.
I lay on my back and pick at the stucco wall behind my headboard. Marie put on a Beatles record and dressed in the most teeny bopper dress a teenage girl could buy.
"Stop living in the past" I said.
"Esmee, honey, I am the past."
I rolled my eyes.
"Whatever that means."
She danced in my room for 15 minutes before realizing it was already 11:46 and then quickly hopped in the 1969 Pontiac Firebird inherited from her father and skidded down the street to ballroom dancing.
I lit a camel and let the heat of my bedsheets embrace me. I hated summer. But when summer was over I hated fall, and then winter and spring thereafter. The only place I ever got a perfect balance was when I had the AC to myself, but Marie says she prefers things "steamy" in bed after a long night of mistakes, just so she can make one more and sweat it off the next morning.
"Hey Jude, don't make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better."
Oh, John Lennon, if only you weren't a commercially-successful activist. Then, I could actually agree with you.