Morning. Cold sun. Dew-coated bedroom window of a person who will soon be important. For now, she lies asleep, brown strands of hiar criss-crossing cream-yellow bedsheets. Midmorning sun casts a haze, lighting up the small room and its inhabitants. It rested over the cluttered desk, strips of light highlighting phrases from a month’s worth of research.
I follow the microdust lazily wondering if a window was open somewhere. Could be that she has a pollen allergy? It bothered me that I cared.
The window was indeed ajar, cantilevering ominously on its bottom edge, a reminder I was in a land too civilized for normal ventilation. My arm wrapped tighter ever so slightly around her, the heavy glass panels growing malicious above our heads.
The last of my dreams had faded away, and the window was just a window. Soon reality infects everything.
The morning after, that dreaded morning after. A rude awakening. How dare my body revolt against me? Do I not keep it dressed and warm? Vile thing, that morning body. Leftover instincts from when we ran with dinosaurs. However, I was in no hurry to give in to its demands. Spirit over mind, mind over sphincter.
Without a reliable clock on the wall, time took its way with my head. An ant, separated from his flock, meandered across the flowery wallpaper, and I accompanied him, all the way from the faded rosebushes by the door to the whimsical cherubs hiding behind the wardrobe. I cheered inside for his Herculean effort, even as he turned half a circle and crawled further away from the ragged edges of my vision.
But that’s frankly too much time spent on the set decoration. What were our actors up to? I have to say, it’s completely unprofessional how he aimlessly plays with her hair, despite the audience knowing what his heart held.
And her? A B-list nobody hoping to strike it big time, but obviously way out of her depth. Huzzah for the mad director if he pulls it off but we all sadly know that auturs like him are a dime a dozen. Wholesale prices while stocks last
We're sitting in her lonely kitchen, sandwiches half made between us. She tells me how it's a nice day for a picnic. I tell her there's no love between us. The sandwiches go uneaten.