I thought I could see the gradual lighting manifesting a new day through my lace curtains. It was 5:00 am, and I had yet to succumb to sleep Monday morning.
Sleep was as elusive as a butterfly. I had spent all day Sunday into late afternoon in bed voraciously devouring a book. I had digested two-thirds of it so far, and was greedy to proceed to the climax and its ending.
I consumed each sentence with the velocity of a scanning machine at Ralphs. My reading was sporadically interrupted by spurts of crying, often followed by a mini nap, only to resume the cycle all over again. The story was sad, I was sad too…misery loves company.
As I tried to make myself drift away, the ferocious howling of the wind took on an eerie life of its own, clamoring for entry. It was accompanied by a band of roosters, a stray cat wailing like a baby, metal sheets dancing in the wind, those threatening to brake free. As if on cue, an empty plastic container of milk made its apparition on stage, to integrate itself to the wind’s maniacal orchestra.
This book I read this weekend actually was entangled between my thighs this morning. You see, I seldom sleep under covers. Actually, I don’t sleep alone either.
On left side of my queen bed is an assortment of books. Books I accumulate since I read a portion of each, until sleep overtakes me. I hope to absorb their contents through osmosis as well....in lieu of a lover...
I slept all of one hour and a half.
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