Sleepy High

Diagonal rain, Sencha green tea. Bach on Classic FM. The girl is in her room with I Want to Die but I Want to Eat Tteokbokki and a mug of vanilla almond tea so strong the scent of it drifts down the hall. Still one more call to make.

This morning was London phone calls. Beslippered and ruffling my shaggy hair, I fumbled around the kitchen, opening the wrong cabinets like a visitor. I laughed myself awake, leaning against the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil. By my second cup of coffee, my producer package was emailed, and my work finished, freeing up my day to work on the novel. Later, I stood under the hot shower; stretching, breathing. I touched my shrinking stomach and thought about yoga and rebirth. I closed my eyes and let the water stream down upon my eyelids. I thought about kissing his eyelids, soft as rose petals, and the kind of orgasms that leave you drooling and spent, unable to feel anything deeper than the surface of your skin. I want to bury my face in his hair and fall asleep on his shoulder. There is so much contentment in those sleepy highs.

Now, candles and winding down into nighttime. I want this night to start early, tomorrow morning to be easy.