To shave. Or not to shave.

It was a dreaded dilemma especially during winter time. There were multiple consequences. One would be social construct that if a person didn't participate in the act of shaving then that person would experience words or facial expressions like: what and what's wrong with you? Second would be half of the person's warmth would be gone. Hair was there for a reason - to provide warmth, to protect from outside bacteria, and natural production of cells.

Wait - I had a solution!

I wore kitty-paw print night pants and a ketchup stained hoodie. The rusty color stain stood out against the tan color hoodie, right in the middle of the material. My leg hairs prickled through my cotton pajama pants. I held my dinner, a bowl of cereal and a small plate of Snickerdoodles, while I binge watched BBC Sherlock for the third time this month. Next on the list to accomplish, How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. Netflix was a second heaven. A pure blissful distraction.

There wasn't that much to do with the night drawing in. Six o'clock appeared to experience the same sensation with darkness similar to midnight. A person could only accomplish so much during those ungodly hours.

I made a mental checklist to complete.

I called Papa earlier.

It was shortly after I arrived home from the hospital. Oh, gosh. I would never see that man – no he wasn't even a man – thing ever again. If he was serious about those hospital bills, I wasn't paying a penny. He had to suffer the outcome. My guilt melted away when I called an ambulance. I did all that I could do to help with the situation. Pointing my fingers to get the lady with her smart phone in hand to call them, I ran to retrieve the napkins on the condiments counter and then I yelled at the barista for ice. Nothing more.

When I called Papa, he answered the phone. Always in the same way.

"McKenzie residence. What do you want?" his grumble voice answered.

"Papa, your phone has caller ID," I chuckled, "You know that it's me."

"You know that I can't see anything. The font is too small!" I heard shuffling occur on the other side of the phone call.

I shook my head. "Excuses. Excuses."

There was a short deep fuss, and then he said, "Yeah, well, it's the truth."

His usual chirper tone droned down to a baritone voice. This was one of the hardest times of the year. Like retrieving milk and bread from the grocery store, I called and made arrangements. I wrote a list, two different categories of short or long goal.

"Want to go see Mama?" I asked. I switched the phone to press against my left ear as I walked into my apartment. I closed the door behind me. The automatic lock clicked.

There was some type of movement on his end. I imagined he ran his wrinkled hand over his face. "Not today. Do you work tomorrow?"

I did. But I wouldn't tell him. I'd be working an eight-hour shift from five in the morning until two in the afternoon. I'd be fine.

"I'm free in the afternoon. I'll pick you up at three," I declared. Something grazed my legs, it went up and then curled around, before the touch disappeared. I glanced down at Dottie. She meowed.

"Sugar," he let out a sigh, "I told you a few weeks ago. I'll be driving."

"Didn't you just say you couldn't see the font?"

Papa chuckled. "Seeing small font and being able to see the road are two different things."

He didn't drive that much anymore. His motivation dwindled as time went on.

"I'll let it slide."

"You really want to separate a man from his car?"

"Not right now," I teased.

"Thank you," he said, "I'll pick you up tomorrow and I'll get-"

"I can retrieve the daisies."

Papa was silent. He grinned and his voice seemed to choke. "Thank you, Sugar."

He wanted to say more, but his throat constricted. I could tell from his pause. He moved the phone away from his ear. I was sure he wiped his beaky nose with the back of his hand.

"Always, Papa," I grinned.

I tried to ask what and how he was doing. He quickly mentioned the notion that he wasn't doing awful. He listed his activities including the senior community center and participating in chair volleyball. His sentences were short and concessive. He concluded our conversation with, "I'll see you tomorrow."

He needed time for himself. Time to reflect and to conceal his vulnerability about his emotions. I thought of another question.

"What have you eaten today?"

"Sugar," he said, "I'm sure you have better things to do than ask me what I've eaten."

He lightly laughed.

No, Papa. I wanted to know. That's why I asked.

"Perhaps," I grimaced.

"I know you do."

You're wrong.

We said our goodbyes to one another, my thumb lingered on the "end" button. I didn't press it. That's when I heard the soft sobs - he didn't press the "end" button either.

I shook my head dismissing my early encounter with Papa. Placing my small plate down on the coffee table, then I stuffed a spoon into my mouth; milk dripped down my chin. A groan expressed itself, my mind fixated on the sticky sensation. I reached out towards the coffee table for a napkin.

However, Dottie pounced up onto my lap. A quiet meow pleaded to help. Her short gray fur had a few asymmetrical white and black hairs, the rest were gray. One specific white blob surrounded her petite nose.

"Dottie, no, you don't need-"

Dottie's whiskers and small tongue tickled my chin. She licked up the cereal milk.

I moved my face sideways to cease Dottie's advancement. I started to make an 'ew' noise and wiped Dottie's spit off of my face. Once done, I threw the used napkin on the coffee table. I rubbed my hand on the cotton couch. The dark purple fabric rolled into small clumps as it pleated. When Mama and Papa moved into a senior apartment complex, I received their couch and loveseat set. The flaps were scratched and torn from Dottie stretches. Free and indispensable.

"You're a pain," I replied. "But you're my pain."

I reached out and wrapped my arms around Dottie's torso before Dottie could run away. I cuddled with Dottie, sticking my face in her fur. Small kisses and growl noises were exchanged between the two of us.

"Fine," I said, "I'll let you go."

Not before I kissed Dottie one more time. Then with a quick pounce, Dottie ran. She stopped underneath the small cedar dining table but not without glaring back at me.

I laughed.

I was no longer watching Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman argue. Thinker versus feeler. Personalities clashed and also flourished their friendship. Instead I grunted getting up from the couch and headed towards a horizontal glass case. A vast lamp laid on top of a wire lid. The bulb's warmth could scorch my skin. However, the lamp's purpose glowed down on a small shell. A red eared slider turtle specifically. He retracted into his shell. His legs pulled inward except for his long nails, dark forest green to compliment his surroundings and protect himself from predators.

Amadeus was his name. He nested on top of a hollow log. Vegetation grew on the right side of the case. He had dry land, multiple places to sunbathe and the rest was covered in water. A lack of fish and a few fake seaweeds kept Amadeus company.

Sometimes I pulled him out of his sheltered life and included him in my space. Of course, that meant I couldn't look away. I watched his movement on the carpet; even Dottie gazed at him. Once, she placed her paw on his shell and he hissed. She cowered and hissed in reply.

"Dinner time, Amadeus," I stated.

With my fingers, I pinched and dropped pelts above the side of the island. He didn't move. He stayed within his comfortable shell, soaking in the man-made light.

I crouched to his eye level. My lips squished together.

"If only I could be a turtle," I replied, "All I would have to worry about is food, sunshine, and water."

Then I remembered a voice: "Let me guess. You're a dog lover?" a husky voice said.

His voice repeated like a record. All imprinted in my brain. Leave me alone!

I didn't lie. I loved turtles. I happened to also have a cat.

How did I get into this mess? I was the one who decided to "try" online dating. I was the one who thought, why not? I was the one that thought, am I missing something?

I plopped back onto the couch and crossed my arms over my chest. I kept gazing at the television.

"You're an over-analyst ... you can check off your list."

His stupid voice.

I grabbed a swirly pillow and hugged it with my whole being. My overgrown nails scratched the polyester material of the pillow.

I didn't make lists. Well, maybe not that much.

I definitely thrived in the list department. Not without my red pen to mark off what I accomplished and got done.

"I wanted to see if your boobs were real or fake."

Throwing my pillow over on the left side of the room, I stomped and proceeded towards my laptop that laid on the dining table.

That jerk he had no respect! Even in my own thoughts!

Dottie scampered off to the opposite side of the room. Her wide emerald eyes focused on me. I opened my laptop, that was on its last lifespan, and the loading screen was visible. Three bars moved right to left until the home page sung its open chorus.

My nose scrunched up. The muscle in my cheek began to twitch.

The small cursor disappeared and reappeared. Without hesitation, I clicked on the chrome icon. Automatically, my web browser displayed Google and then my fingers typed out where I wanted to go.

Why was I doing this? This was silly.

Out of habit, I logged into all sorts of social media: Facebook, TrueMatch, TimeToBlog, and many more. On my Facebook page, my "friends" had posted pictures of concerts, engagement rings, babies, and other gooey cheesy stuff. I noticed a former high school friend; on her left fourth finger sat a glittery diamond ring. Her caption was in all caps: I SAID YES!!

I sighed.

I should be happy for her. I clicked on something else to get out of the post.

My past relationships ranged from crushes, infatuation, and one possible boyfriend, though apparently, we weren't actually dating. Two weeks into the relationship, I found charming Alexander locking lips with a beautiful woman outside of his work.

I did what any reasonable woman would do. I screamed and ran away.

Later that night, I called him in tears. He explained to me that going out on three dates didn't mean we were dating. I deleted his phone number and ignored the fact that what he said was correct. We didn't verbally say "girlfriend" or "boyfriend." Instead, I remembered those light-hearted conversations, warmth that lingered from his touches, and the giggles over his messages.

Gosh, was I stupid? A school girl? Did I act the same towards Oliver?

Why didn't I walk away from Oliver then? He wanted a reaction. Nothing more. He didn't even want a date. He wanted to hook up.

My fingers clicked over to the other tab of TrueMatch.com. My profile appeared along with my picture; my biography informed the other person about my interests. My occupation as a Paramedic. I needed to let my future spouse know my dedication. Three notifications pinged in my inbox.

I saw there were new messages, but I didn't click on them. I was able to see the first sentence, which was normal. Hi, how are you?

I rubbed my forehead.

I'd look at their messages tomorrow. My head leaned into my hand with my elbow on the table.

My cursor hovered over the annoying smiley face that was Oliver.

Why did you do this to yourself?

With my jaw tight, I clicked on his face. I'd show him.

All that was on his profile wall were compliments.

Oh my gosh, you're gorgeous! When can we meet?

The last comment was emoji kisses tagged next to it.

There was a ton of activity on his wall. No fights between women from what I could tell. All positive and welcoming.

My hands gripped the side of my laptop.

He didn't deserve all this attention.

These women were blowing rainbows and sunshine at his ego. This feedback made one believe they were doing the right thing.

He needed a reality check.

My fingers lined up over the keyboard. Fingers hovered over the letters, I stared at my blue-light screen and sighed. Nobody liked a Know-It-All. Or a troll.

My name would be written all over if I commented about my experience with him.

I smirked.

I logged out of my existing account on TrueMatch and email.

My fingers typed fast. I created a new email and TrueMatch. I started making up information, name, occupation, and my profile picture was a cat. A cat I found on Google. A website in white letters covered half the photo.

Then I typed:

I smiled at my work. That was nice. A little petty, but it felt nice.

I watched as other ladies replied back. Not mean, just a "what," and "he didn't do that for you?"

Maybe I should make another account. I laughed out loud to no one. Amadeus continued to sleep and Dottie tilted her head as she watched me.

Hello! 👋

What are your thoughts on this chapter? This one focused more about Sugar and her lifestyle. There's more to learn and understand her character. We got to see into her thoughts and more of her personality. Also her past.

Questions will be answered in the next two chapters about her grandma and grandpa and other things!

I want to thank you for reading, voting, and commenting on this story!! You have no idea how much it means to me. The feedback has been incredible! You are literally the best readers.

😘