When she looked at the clock, it said 10:50. That was AM. It was Wednesday, her day off. She never slept this late-- never. Even this past Sunday after going out the night before she was awake by 7a. Even Tuesday she awoke at 6 AM naturally even though she'd been awake until almost 1 the night before. Maybe today was a catch up day, she wasn't sure. Either way, it was a gloomy day and she was glad to still be in bed. Her cat was curled up next to her side, purring loudly. The space heater next to her was silent but warm. She stretched. Rolled over. Fell back asleep.
This never happened, days where she had nothing planned until 3:30 or maybe 4p. Then, she would go work out. Before then, she would run random errands. Do things online. Do some dishes. Feed the cat. But for now, she rolled over and continued her dream. In it, she lived in Westport-- within walking distance of Broadway Cafe. She wrote her Great American Novel in that place. It was so real-- so true and personal and physical she needed to go back. So she did. Until noon.
At noon, she finally got out of bed. It was Wednesday. There was a storm coming. She prepared her mind for such a thing, made her plans, decided where to spend the night to best make it into work the following day. She'd joked with Gina the night before that she might sleep in the parking lot of Target just in case...
Either way, she'd slept until noon.
First time for everything...
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