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whoosh

It is one in the morning. You are asleep on the couch. My neck is stiff from sitting at the computer... doing nothing. Every few minutes a car whooshes by in the night. There's that hollow feeling of bouyant useless empty space when the air conditioner kicks on... because it's not hot in here, but I'm not cold enough to get up and turn it off. Because that would mean walking across the room, and that would entail some purposefulness, and that would yank me from my zombie stare and make me realize I should take my contacts out and go to bed. Which would mean walking past you in the living room and having to make the decision whether or not to wake you and guide you to bed with me. You're stirring now. The fridge begins to hum. I wonder if I could win at solitaire.

M

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