2 a.m. on a Tuesday

You wake… and throw a sweaty arm through darkness in a perfect, practiced arc that impresses even you. Your hand, as if guided of its own volition and merely tethered to you by the fleshy leash of an arm, lands perfectly on target – your phone.  You’ve done this a thousand times, and it still feels like you’re appreciating someone else’s achievement. Silent applause. Thank you, thank you.

It’s been lifetimes since you closed your eyes, and yet, like Magellan, you’ve circled the globe of night how many times to arrive back so close to where you started – only 2:00??

The skin against the bed dampens with sweat in what seems like seconds. You turn yourself, as if on a spit, exposing the wet bits to the solace of the oscillating fan. You turn, and turn, hip to hip and front to back. A desperate dance of hot and sticky, cool and dry. Sun tanning in the dark.

You imagine a young, grease covered boy in coveralls with a headlamp running through underground tunnels turning steam valves. Gasping for breath choked by thick steam and sweltering heat. Fighting back some unknown but inevitable and catastrophic failure. Dreaming… Fantasizing… In the midst of what must seem like the end of his life, about the sinful ecstasy of a soft seat and a glass of ice water.


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