Five in the morning and I have once again gone though a night without sleep. I do not need a clock to tell me what time it is. The call for prayers from the mosque on the next street already alerted me at four thirty and at five, it’s those blasted birds nesting in the patio. I find myself contemplating a meal of roast pigeon for breakfast and plotting the ways of catching the little buggers.
My tummy is rumbling and I wonder if I truly did eat that bowl of cereal at three, and if I am serious about that pigeon. My lips quirk up in a smile as I remember the chat I had with a friend while working through the night on my temperamental computers. Our conversation had changed rapidly from that of a technician and his client to that of lovers. Even now his charming words make me blush and I smile as I recall the playful banter we exchanged.
Instead of sitting up in bed as I usually do, I have planted myself behind the desk in the study area of my home, having done so to allow me access to the two condemned machines that I have been working on. My chair allowing me to wheel from the computer workstation to the large wooden desk is an added bonus, permitting me to multitask effectively. Scattered about me in a circular order are the recovery discs that failed to bring my system back up to standard and I notice the perfect arch they form. Anal retentive as always…I just had to have order in my chaos and couldn’t simply spread them about the desk. Now, I must need stack the discs, place them in their plastic haven then help them find their way into the allocated spot beside the stapler and white-out in the desk drawer.
Dad’s gentle snores can be heard from the adjacent room as they have all night long and I wonder how it’s possible for him to sleep seven hours straight. If only I could do that. If only….I shake my head in an attempt to clear it. No use dwelling on what ifs and what could have been. Not this morning anyway. I tuck my feet up under me, a dangerous thing to do when sitting on a wheeled chair, and tug at the ends of my t-shirt to adequately cover my thighs and consequently the two-day old bruises that cover them; the result of ardent grips by a very intense lover. The t-shirt itself – it belonged to my ex boyfriend- often draws questioning looks and frowns from my father and for a moment, I feel guilty for not being the good girl he’s always wanted and for having to hide my new beau from him.
Deciding not to risk the shirt slipping and exposing the evidence of my misdeeds, I unfold my legs and drop my feet to the floor. Startled briefly by the contact of the cold terrazzo, I make my way to my bedroom, my sole intention to find a pair of jogging pants.