Lying in languor, eyes closed, I revel in the sleep-dulled rush of sensory input. Muscles waking up, stretching. The workmen in the neighbors yard clanking madly away on some part of that yard that would be better left alone at 9 a.m. on a saturday. The warm spot on the blankets down between my legs where the cat lays purring for all the world as if she couldn’t be any happier. The acrid taste of morning breath becoming apparent in my mouth. The familiar smell of the bedroom. The faint odor of the litterbox in the next room. Warm well-made sheets sliding over my limbs. The morning wood that’s burst the bonds of my boxers and straining for release. The cat and I move in an odd parody of one another slowly willing our lethargic muscles to contract and release… stretching the sleep away. Walking stiffly, me on hands and knees we both make our way to the edge of the bed. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes I wander into the bathroom to clean the taste out of my mouth so I don’t ruin my breakfast with my breath before I get a chance to eat it. As if the very though of breakfast were a telepathic broadcast the cat begins meowing from the food bowl that she is ready to be served. I scowl. Women. Even the cat thinks it’s a princess. Growling audibly I run back over the nights events in my head.
Valentines day has become increasingly more packed with kryptonite every year since I was about 16. This year was a record breaker.
