#15 of 100 Stories

The Texture of Yearning in Technicolor

Catch the dream

The obnoxious nnnn of the no longer appreciated alarm jars my eyelids into rolling up like a plastic window shade -unevenly.

I peel my torso upward and moan, “Crude,” after I realize I have slept in makeup and the outfit I wore the day prior.

I scoot to the edge of the mattress, snatch the clock from its perch on the nightstand and drop it to the floor.

“So long and goodbye,” I taunt with the angst of a teenager.

The dregs of a dream, featuring a naked man, spins a tight loop, then dips behind my frontal lobe.

I smack my dehydrated lips together and frown when the sour resins of champagne, cheese, and fruit ripen the air.

“Ugh,” I groan before propelling myself into a stance and burying my bare feet into the coolness of the hardwood floor.

I fling my arms up to stretch away kinks and cramps caused by overnight changes in fascia and joint lubrication, then affirm, “Today is the first day of my new life.”

I slowly press my hands together into a prayer position, pull my arms down until my thumbs rest between both breasts, close my eyes, and sway meditatively when phosphene casts surreal sage-toned flashes despite the lack of source.

My lungs deflate, I smile, and an impression of liberation settles upon my awareness like riverbed silt when images of a naked man begin to flash across my mental periphery.