Oh, twilight is the magic hour, not 230am when I wake with the dog’s nose at my ear, his drunk-carny’s breath misting my skin, he chooses me, he chooses me, so I get up, stumble to the patio door, let him out, huddle on the loveseat waiting for him to sniff and be good only to realize my right foot is wet and I lift it, but can’t see it in the dark and I panic: is it blood? And my brain laughs, not kindly, before the correction: cat vomit. So I stumble to the kitchen and use paper towels and water until I’m vaguely satisfied it’s okay for my foot to touch our sheets again and the dog leads the way to the bedroom and I snuggle under the comforter and toss and turn until the cats scale my body, even when I switch sides, and one cat touches her paw to my eyelid so I get up and stumble to the laundry room and serve them kibble and say screw it and serve them a can of wet food, too, then stumble to bed and snuggle under the comforter and obsess on the sequel I’m writing and it’s 4am and I should just get up, now, brew coffee, work, but 4 is too early, even 5 is better than 4, so I toss and turn until Big Boy bangs on the front door and I get out of bed and stumble there and let him in and he lopes by me, frisky, his coat an orange beacon in the darkness, he is that fabulous, and he leads the way to the laundry room and I open a can of wet food just for him and when I stumble into bed it’s closer to 5, but so what because I plummet into a dream in which I am Mary Louise Parker in a movie with Tom Selleck and we are supposed to be re-falling in love, but Tarantino-bad guys taze us, but they mess up and only partially taze me/MLP, things worse for Tommy strapped to a gurney the bad guys launch down a steep street and I/MLP run hard after that gurney and I/MLP am going to save Tom Selleck! But I wake and my husband’s hand thumps mine as he mumbles something I will never ask him to clarify. 8am. We get up. I make coffee. Then our son gets up and I make pancakes and now we’re going house hunting and I’m writing this before we leave because if I don’t write something down, all day I’ll forget why it is I am cranky. All day I’ll forget. Why.


About PB Rippey

Writer, wife, mother, activist, fortunate.
This entry was posted in Avoiding My Writing, books, Fiction, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Words do not escape you

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