My apartment mate leaves for her work at eight o'clock, at a time when I'm usually fixing my second cup of coffee. Shortly thereafter on days when I do not have to be anywhere in the morning, instead of having breakfast I fill a pipe with tobacco and read the news.
After that I grab a book.
At present that's Monday and Thursday for sure, and usually also one or two other week days.
I've never been a breakfast person. Caffeine, newspapers, and a smoke. That has been the ticket for most of my life.
You might say I became the quintessential bachelor when I was fourteen. By habit, if not by any inherent tendencies.
I would join my dad at the kitchen table, and both of us would have our cups of coffee and read the newspapers in silence.
It's an early morning thing.
Time to smoke.
I very much like people who can read for long periods quietly and with total concentration; they do not have to be smokers, many of my friends aren't. But they do have to be able to focus.
On Monday evening, my apartment mate retired to her room with the one-legged monkey, and spent the next several hours reading in bed.
With a foot-tall simian dude.
She does that often, on the evenings when she isn't seeing Wheelie Boy or watching trash-television. I respect her privacy as she does mine.
My bed, because of a very similar behavioural pattern, resembles a battle field. The entire left-hand side is a
higgledy-piggledy library guarded by stuffed animals. Much as I would like to have someone human share it, that has not happened, and probably cannot happen.
Unless they were somewhat petite (and really liked cookies).
I would need some advance notice if it were to occur.
Enough time to clear some space, at least.
I'd probably find books that I meant to finish months ago, but forgot about when other reading material crowded in and on top.
That happened the last time I rooted around under the bed too.
There were dictionaries and cookbooks there.
As well as sundry novels.
The only thing I use my down comforter for is to keep from bumping into hard edges and corners when I'm in bed. Sort of a retaining wall.
Or, conceivably, a dyke holding back a bruising flow.
Also a good place to put a plate of cookies.
There's no telling what is on the left-hand side.
I'll have to go exploring one of these days.
Who knows what I will find there.
No doubt distracting.
No, it's highly unlikely that I might find a young lady hiding there.
I am fairly certain I would remember ensconcing her among the books and various stuffed animals months ago, if that had happened.
Besides, young ladies cannot survive on cookies alone.
Their rambunctious selves require protein.
As well as comfy pillows!
Which are under books.
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
"a dyke holding back a bruising flow."
The resulting imagery, from decades of life in the bay area, is probably very different that what you had intended.
But aren't all dykes warm and fluffy?
No, some dykes are vicious femminazi storm troopers out for blood. Men-hating bitch bikers with drawn and dripping knives, ready to shank an innocent male in the back
Oh, you're talking about embankements, levees, and such?
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