Listen, I can’t talk long

My hands are dirty.

I wore my glasses all night, and though they’re put to bed now, I can still feel them on the bridge of my nose.

My nightshirt, slung over the shower curtain pole to dry because I accidentally ran water up the sleeve this morning, was a sight almost sweet enough to make me cry.

I wish tomorrow was a week away.

I wish a week away was starting tomorrow.

And like some deeply craved mail order item, I will have to wait two days, for sleep to be caught up, for life to re-equilibrate, before this goods on this night’s experience are delivered.

So I will rush to rest. So I can receive the news.

 

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