Glass of tequila on the table, just a squeeze of lime and two ice cubes. Glass of tequila and an orange cat sprawled on my lap. Work clothes still on, even the sandals, moving through the evening not a moment to change. Oh look, there is a stain on my dress. My glow-stick bracelet from a favored child’s birthday still glows bright orange–a color of canned sunshine.
The humid air thick with the smell of French soaps brought as a gift from a Paris summer weekend while I walked a dog in the heat. Some of the lights have burned out. Shadows hit the walls in interesting ways. I could watch them dance all night if I wanted–me and my glass of tequila, with the cat on my lap.
But sleep is coming fast unless I keep writing and then sleep will never come. Blow out the candles on the altars–trust that angels or altar gnomes will keep my prayers while I sleep. Close the computer. Stop now. Stop now. Stop.