Five and a Half Hours

Five and a half hour later, I wake up.

I'm groggy and sticky-eyed, my braids are tangled in pillow, and I know however much more snoozing I do, it's not getting any better than this. So I get up, go to the bathroom, and make a list. Get these one-two-three-four -fifteen-sixteen-seventeen items done. The first is coffee. Okay, go.

(Five and a half hours after what? After more "I love you"s and more "please find someone else"s. Five an a half hours after I call my friend on the phone and talk for another hour and a half, losing sleep for both of us all the while but this is what friends are for, right? I go to bed relieved.)

Large mocha Frappuchino. Cold sweet coffe with chocolate in it. The barista forgets, and has to be asked, to pour chocolate sauce on top. "The more chocolate the better," I tell her. "Like a lot of things in life." It sounds sort of profound, ten minutes after I've woken up.

(On the way back to the dorm I pass the place we talked last night. I can see our footprints, close to each other, facing each other. He takes every chance he can get to hug me, because he's always afraid it'll be the last. I always want it to be.)

Back at my dorm I cross the first item off my list. "-COFFEE!" The more items, the more I feel I've achieved. I stop on my way to the stairs to watch the silent TV, on the food channel. Eggs with tomatoes in, drizzled with greens and set aside. A shepard's pie - no, baked penne. I know what's in that - onion, garlic, salt, sausages, tomatoes, penne, cheese, and breadcrumbs. It looks damn good.

(I need him not to love me. I need him not to give up on life. Goddamn, there is no answer.)

God, that penne looks good.