I officially knew what garbage felt like.

A harsh stream of sunlight beamed in through the open window and I turned away from it, burying my face into the pillow. I inhaled deeply, taking in the smell that undoubtedly screamed ‘girl!’. Which is odd, since I don’t live with one of those anymore. Not since I got dumped.

Suddenly feeling more awake I took in my surroundings. It wasn’t the first time I had felt this way but the feeling of not having a clue where I was always managed to freak me out. It’s one thing to wake up in a strange hotel and feel disoriented but another thing entirely to wake up and not even recognize the people in the photos on the nightstand next to the bed.

The room was somewhat small, painted a bright lime green color with dark brown curtains. An old dresser was just off the end of the bed, somewhat dilapidated with paint peeling off most of it and old drawers that didn’t quite fit properly back onto the rails. Clothes were haphazardly poking out and draped on every available corner, every inch of the top of the dresser was covered with some kind of beauty product, likely the source of the light flowery fragrance in the room.

Set back in one of the only corners of the room not covered in stuff was an easel. A large canvas was perched on the ledge with a half finished landscape of a colorful countryside painted on it. I was impressed, whoever this girl was she had some real talent.

The room was freezing but my bladder was burning badly enough that I knew I had to get up and find the bathroom. With a cautionary glance I lifted the white duvet, letting out a sigh of relief when I saw that my underwear were right where I left them - on me. It didn’t necessarily mean I hadn’t had sex, but it was a positive step in that direction. As my feet hit the ice cold hardwood I checked around for my clothes but didn’t see them anywhere. The cold only made the urge to pee worse so I quickly made my way out the door and into the hallway, nearly walking into a linen closet before finally finding the bathroom.

As I stood at the toilet I tried to remember what had happened the night before. I had been pretty depressed about turning 30 and being single so my friends had banded together and insisted that we go out drinking and dancing. I hadn’t planned on getting drunk but I could recall someone making a big deal out of it being my birthday and the next thing I knew everyone in the bar was buying me a shot. I could have said no, I could have explained that I don’t really drink anymore, but I thought it would be rude to refuse so I drank. Things got a little fuzzy after that.

It’s my birthday, I suddenly realized, freeing up one hand to check the date on my watch. With a non-committal grunt I flushed, tucked everything back into place and washed my hands with weird foamy strawberry soap. I didn’t feel thirty, I felt fifty, and the thought that I would never be able to bounce back from a night on the town like a 20-year-old was a little scary to me.

Just as I reached for the handle on the door it swung in to meet me and I had to dodge the knob before it hit me in the stomach.

“Whoa!” I exclaimed, jumping back in surprise.

The girl on the other side merely cocked her head curiously, “You’re up.”

At first glance I was hoping I hadn’t slept with this girl. She was cute, sure, but she wasn’t hot and definitely wasn’t what I would normally go for in a girl. I liked tall, she barely came to my shoulder. I liked thin, she was a little bottom heavy (junk in the trunk might be a huge turn on for some guys but I’m more of a boob man and she had very little in that department). I liked long hair and this chick was sporting a pixie cut. Most of all she was not exactly dressed to impress. While most of the girls I get with are into lace thongs and barely there bras she was wearing a pair of light pink cotton underwear (Fruit of the Loom probably) and a tank top covered in little splotches of dried paint.

I knew it was wrong of me to be so shallow, to judge this poor girl on her appearance but as a celebrity I had it done to me every day so it was only fair.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked, moving into the bathroom with me.

I really wanted to leave the room but there wasn’t enough space to squeeze past her so I stood uncomfortably by the stall shower while she began to brush her teeth.

“Uh, yeah, I guess,” I mumbled, eyeballing the hallway, “I woke up, so that’s something. I gotta ask... how did I get here?”

“You don’t remember?” she asked around the toothbrush, leaning down to spit into the sink before turning to face me, “Happy Birthday by the way.”

Of course she knows it’s my birthday, I thought, of all the weird girls I decide to pick up I had to choose a fan, “How’d you know it’s my birthday?”

“Same way I know your name is Nick.”

“Because you read it in a magazine?” I questioned sarcastically and she looked legitimately perplexed.

“No...” she said, drawing out the word as her eyebrows pushed together in confusion, “It’s written all over your chest.”

Glancing down I saw that she was right. Scrawled across my chest in Sharpie were the words, “HI I’M NICK! BUY ME A DRINK IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!” I rubbed my hand over the lettering, it was clearly not my own writing. There were angry red bumps under my fingertips and she let out a laugh as I picked at one.

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember shaving your chest?” she chuckled and I shook my head slowly. Holding up a pink disposable razor she grinned, “You did it with this. You were worried no one would be able to read the words clearly enough.”

“What the fuck happened last night?” I put both hands on top of my head with a groan.

She pulled herself up to sit on the vanity while I leaned against the shower door. I couldn’t tell you why we were both still in the bathroom but it didn’t seem as though we were leaving any time soon. She quickly launched into the story of my raucous impromptu birthday soiree, my level of embarrassment growing with each word.

She had been out with some of her old high school friends (a group of people I had a feeling she did not quite fit in with nowadays) when they had met me and my friends in a club. We all got drunk so fast that she decided to switch to water and be responsible for keeping us out of trouble. She couldn’t tell me much about the writing on my chest because it was already there when they found us. I had been wearing a button up shirt that was only done up enough to keep from getting kicked out of the club. (Clearly it had been the fault of one of my own “friends”.)

I had been flirting with one of her friends and we were halfway out the door to the club to catch a cab when I had not-so-gracefully thrown up all over myself. The girl that I had mentally labelled as awkward and plain had come to my rescue when her friend ditched me in disgust. My friends were worse off than I was so they weren’t helping me. Instead this perfect stranger got me cleaned up as best as she could and put me in a cab.

“So why didn’t I just go home?” I wondered aloud, still not sure how I ended up in this apartment and in her bed.

“I got in the cab with you,” she explained, “It was absolute chaos in that club with everyone so out if it I didn’t want to stay and I was a little nervous about you choking on your own vomit. I had you tell the driver your address and you gave him one but...” she paused and cleared her throat, “Well, it wasn’t your house.”

I had a terrible feeling I knew whose house it was I had directed the cab to, “How did she react?” I asked.

“Not well,” the girl admitted, “The lights were on inside and I thought you belonged there so I knocked on the door. Some guy came to the door and then she was there yelling about you showing up drunk again. I tried to explain that you gave the cab driver that address but she told me you guys broke up around Halloween. I'm sorry...”

“It’s not your fault,” I waved her off before crossing my arms tightly across my now-completely-bare chest, “Then what happened?”

She shrugged her slim shoulders, “The cab driver was waiting to take me home anyway so I just brought you with me. Your clothes had puke all over them so I put them in the wash - they’re dry now, I put them in the living room. At that point you were yelling about not being able to read the note on your chest which is when you went at it with the razor. Then by the time I got back from the washer you had curled up in my bed and were fast asleep.”

“I stole your bed?” I asked rhetorically, feeling like a complete and utter douche for what I had put this girl through, but still relieved that I didn’t have sex with her when I was completely trashed, “I’m so sorry. How can I repay you?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said before hopping off the counter, “Are you hungry?”

“You don’t have to feed me. I should just get dressed and go, I’ve put you out enough!”

“Don’t be silly,” she assured me and her smile put me at ease, “It’s your birthday. You have to have your birthday breakfast!”

I blinked, surely this girl could not be for real. She didn’t seem to know who I was (or if she did she was hiding it very well) and I had not only made her clean up my puke, and shaved my chest with her razor, but also slept in her bed and she was still being unbelievably nice.

“Why are you doing this?” I couldn’t help but ask, following her down the hallway and out into a small room that had both the kitchen and living room.

“Because...” she trailed off, putting her hand on her chin as she thought. She turned to face me and I swear I could see tears glistening in her hazel eyes, “I’ll never forget how sad you looked when that guy opened the door last night. If making you breakfast is the least I can do to put a little happiness back in your life then I’d do it every day. Now, what do you want? Anything, just name it.”

“French toast,” I said softly, grinding my molars together to keep myself from getting emotional, “with bacon.”

“Coming right up!” she said, her bubbly demeanor returning as she bounced into the kitchen to work on breakfast.

My jeans were laying over the arm of an old loveseat and I slipped them on, surprised that there had been really no discomfort with being in my underwear around this stranger whose home I had woken up in. I watched her move around the incredibly small kitchen with ease and it was clear that when it came to finances she was in need. But that day, the only 30th birthday I would ever have, I was the one that needed a little charity. If my life were a Hollywood romantic comedy that would be her name, sweet Charity.

"Hey," I called out towards the kitchen as I finished getting dressed, "What's your name anyway?"

"Amy," she answered and I chuckled at how ridiculous it was of me to think I could guess her name because of how nice she had been. No one's life was that perfect, definitely not mine, but French toast would make it better.