Walking my neighborhood. Darkness surrounds. Eyes. Cruel ones. My house. Winding streets. Rogue onions rolling amok in the parking lot. First one. Then a truckload. I’m buried alive by them. Choke and gag on their peeling skins—what’s revealed. More eyes— watching. Warning flags. Past. Present. Future. Shared laughter. Healing. Darkness. Time/space shopping continuum. Day indiscriminately meshing into the veil of darkness. Race of a lifetime.
I awake as always from my premonition dreams, bolting upright, covered in sweat. What the hell? Thought they were gone. Haven’t had one in…forever. Why the hell won’t they leave me alone? Or at least give me something I can work with. Hate how the images they present are so jumbled. Can’t make heads or tails of them. Only after, then I know what they were trying to foretell.
I feel the start of a headache. Always get one after my visions. Wish they’d come when I’m awake. But no, they always invade my sleep. Maybe if I were awake during them, I could make sense of them.
Though I know it’s useless, I try to fit the fragmented pieces of my premonition dream puzzle into place. My headache worsens, and the images from my dream fade into uncertainty before I can connect them. Fuck!
I lie down and stare at the ceiling for a long time before exhaustion and sleep overtake me.
The Waiting Game
He slides down in his car seat, watching the car pull up in front of Sally’s. Narrows his eyes, recognizing the driver.
Fuckin’ cunt—Angel!
Sally gets out of the passenger seat, grabs a bag, waves and heads inside as Angel drives off.
How dare she be happy.
He curls the side of his mouth into an evil sneer.
That’ll change. Always does when I make my point. And I’ve been so good at that.
He leans his head back and settles in. Doesn’t mind waiting. It’s part of the game. And he likes games. Is good at them. Waiting. Calculating. Figuring out his best advantage.
A while later, he hears a car backing down her driveway.
So, where we going?
He follows her from a safe distance, one not to raise her suspicion—at least, not yet. They drive a bit, and he recognizes the path she’s taking.
The market, huh?
Sally pulls in the lot well ahead of him. He passes that entry, opting to circle around the corner and pull in another. She’s already walking into the store when he enters the lot. He parks a few aisles over from her car. Turning off his engine, he resumes the waiting game.
Bags in hand, Sally exits the store. He notices the way she looks flustered.
Hmmm, and I haven’t even started my fun…yet.
He sees her quicken her pace halfway to her car.
Excellent!
Doesn’t look around though, until she’s in her car and pulling out. He lets out a pleased sigh as she leaves the parking lot.
“Until next time, bitch!” he says aloud, starting his engine and driving the other way.
Pre-class Jitters
Huh? What is that? The circuits in my groggy brain attempt to connect. The clock. My stupid alarm clock. Who the hell invented them? He should be shot, brought back to life and then shot again! Without opening my eyes, I reach over and slam my hand against it. The annoying machine skitters across the nightstand and crashes against the wall. With a satisfied grin, I listen as it pathetically beeps out its last wakeup call. It manages only a half dozen or so before it falls forever silent. Excellent!
Perhaps I should keep track of how many of these contraptions I’ve destroyed over the years. Images of alarm clocks, their intricate wires and circuit boards spilling from their shattered cases come to mind. I can’t help but smile at the pretty picture it paints.
Eyes still closed, I begin my getting out of bed routine. Some might call it stalling. I prefer to think of it as making sure that I’m fully prepared to face whatever the day might throw at me. My regimen begins with a leisurely cat-like stretch. Still lying in bed, I reach my arms overhead and interlace my fingers. Facing the palms of my hands outward, I push them away from my head, grunting. Several joints crack in the process. Geez, when did that start? Used to be able to stretch and work out without anything aching or popping. Now I creak in the morning. Great! I’m sure a walker isn’t far behind. I slowly allow the stretch to work its way down the entire length of my body, wiggling this way and that as more joints crack into position. Finally the stretch reaches my feet, and my toes curl.
I throw the covers back, attempting to convince myself that I will soon get up. I open my eyes and try to focus. Who am I kidding? I slam my eyes shut and roll over, covering up in the process. My body melts against the mattress once more.
Feel like I didn’t sleep at all last night. And based on the snarled sheets, it’s clear I tossed and turned—a lot. Can’t stop thinking about it. The class. Is this a good idea? A stupid one? One that’ll help? Or hurt? No wonder I’m so tired.
My need to pee becomes incessant. I try to ignore it. No use. Reluctantly, I open my eyes and peek over the edge of the bed. Princess, determined to eke out every possible moment of rest, is still asleep. Good girl. Stepping over her, I pad my way to the restroom, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and combing my fingers through my hair.
I sit on the toilet and rest my face in my hands while thoughts plague my mind. Today’s the day! No turning back. Am I gonna be able to provide what I want for these women? Or am I just setting us all up for failure?
Getting up, I flush and go to wash my hands and face, and brush my teeth. As I reach for a towel, Princess comes in and sits beside me. “Wanna go out?”
She springs to attention and wags her tail, several barks escaping. I grab my robe from behind the bathroom door. Slipping in an arm, I smile at its plush softness. Not like those skimpy lingerie robes I used to wear.
Here’s the thing. A robe is a robe. Right? By definition it’s supposed to cover you up and offer warmth. Well, the ultra sheer, damn-you-look-hot “robes” I used to wear offer none of the above. They’re just for show. Pretty packaging for what lies underneath.
I nuzzle my chin against the plush shoulder of my robe. Now this is what a robe should be. Sensible. Warm. And revealing just enough to entice onlookers without the wearer freezing to death in the process. What they say is true. Age really is accompanied by wisdom.
I head downstairs with Princess bounding down the stairs ahead of me. When she gets to the bottom, she turns and barks at me to hurry. “I’m coming, girl.” I let her out, then pour myself a cup of coffee. By the time I’ve fetched a yogurt from the fridge and added cream and sugar to my mug, Princess is at the door.
I open it, and she bounds in. Acting as if she hasn’t seen me in weeks, she circles, barks and rubs against my legs. I have to steady myself against her weight so she won’t knock me over. She calms down, giving me the opportunity to prepare a bowl of food for her.
We eat our breakfast in silence. Well, not exactly in silence. Princess