At The End Of The Day
The last few drops of wine are still in the glass. Next to the ashtray with the crushed butt of the last cigarette. Leave it. It can wait till morning.
With the water, the soapsuds slide down my body and take it all with them. The sweat, the dust, the removed hair stubble and the day’s stress all flow down the drain. Leave the bathroom, scrubbed, shaved, plucked and lotioned up. A ritual performed to mark one day completed.
Smooth legs slip between sheets of cool cotton. The mattress gently hugs my contours from one side, the soft weight of the blanket from the other. Tired limbs start to relax. One arm stretched out under the pillow, the other close to the chest. One leg pulled up, the knee about level with the hips. It’s called the recovery position. It couldn’t have a more apt name.
One deep breath sucks in the lingering sent of laundry detergent. Eyes strained by the harsh light of computer screens happily close. I know I’ll be with you, in my dreams.
Until the alarm cruelly announces the new day and the coffee pot brings its bitter comfort.
