CaBloWriMo: Ritual and routine


He believed in ritual and routine, and I believed in staying in bed until the bars opened, subsisting on whatever delights could be foraged within arm’s reach. And so our days would go: he would sleep little and lightly, resentful of my life signs, stacking each breath and wriggle on top of the grudge Jenga. In return, I would lie in, with a vengeance.

At 5am, he would cease to occupy my space, bursting out of our cocoon to do whatever it was healthy, well-adjusted people liked to do under direct sunlight. When I awoke an unspecified number of hours later, I would wince, stretch my belly out like some kind of ass-backwards feline, then thrust my arms and legs into the corners of the bed, feeling their coolness. Somehow, like this, I got to feel like I was a giant embracing the whole bed. That made me lonely.

When I felt lonely, I didn’t want to get out of bed. So when my phone buzzed, as it always did around this time, I ignored it, to spite him, and because I didn’t feel like being seen being lonely, not by him or by anyone else. He would find me by moonlight, aloft on the loving arms of my oldest friend.

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons


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