Lilias, you tempted me too much... and the paper is *not* going well... so... the third in my attempts to move past writer's block!
Follows "Three A.M."
My first thought when the phone rang was that something was wrong and that I was needed on a mission. The second came when I saw your number on the caller ID, and I panicked, blindingly afraid that something was wrong with you.
Why was that feeling so much worse, knotting my stomach and tightening my throat?
Cookies at three a.m. It's something only you would ever think of.
Maybe I'm a little testy, to have been yanked out of a sound sleep for this surreal moment with you. Maybe I'm a little irritated that I'm allowing you to come over as if you hadn't been completely silent for the past week.
Maybe I'm just relieved that you haven't decided you're bored with me yet.
Warm cookies at three-thirty in the morning. Hot coffee to wash away the dulling sleepiness, and cold milk sweet on my tongue, balancing the sweetness of the cookies and the rich chocolate chips. We sit here in my kitchen, the window still dark with night as you chat idly about everything and nothing.
Have you been sleeping? I don't think you have... there are hollows under your eyes and shadows within. I'm tempted to ask you what has been going on, but I fear to tread to near the invisible line between friendship and... not-friendship. But I worry anyway.
The cookies are good.
You yawn, and I can hear your jaw pop: that's how widely you've opened your mouth.
I don't think you have been sleeping. The coffee doesn't seem to have much effect on you, as your eyes droop shut and your head nods.
A split-second decision. Today is a Sunday, I think... you won't have to go to work. So I hook one of your arms over my shoulder and guide you to my bedroom. You can sleep for a while in my bed, and I'll spend some time watching television or on the computer.
You're just awake enough to help me work your boots off before you sprawl bonelessly across the mattress. It's up to me now to manuever you beneath the sheets.
You mumble sleepily, the words too slurred for me to make out even the syllables, but you reach out, fumbling for something. You catch my hand in yours, and clasp it tightly as you start to snore.
I don't think I can extricate my fingers from yours... not without the possibility of a damage, which is unacceptable.
Well, I could use a few more hours of sleep, too. I scoot you over a little in the bed and stretch out on top of the blankets, my hand in yours still.
Thank you for the cookies.
I'm a sap, and I'm *not* writing my paper... argh...