Muse?
Still looking for that damned bitch... but I was hanging with my friend Teri yesterday and some of her writer-ness must have rubbed off on me.. I felt like writing a little bit this morning. Not sure why.. go figger.
Swirls of color intricately patterned filled his mind’s eye as old friends, dead for years now, disappeared and consciousness took over. His shoulder hitched as he stirred on his bed, an ancient injury that threatened to “pop out of socket” if he turned the wrong way. Blurriness raced into his eyes as the world began to be out of focus once more. It always surprised him that for the first few seconds of waking he could see better. He never got tired of that trick.
He gazed outside at the window, to see what the weather was like. The cool air of the air conditioner was spitting out and making his nipples stand at attention like good little soldiers. Not quite ten in the morning. He could always tell what time it was, an internal clock almost never failed him. Pleasure erupted as he wiped the sleep from his eyes, glad that he’d been able to sleep past 8:00am, a habit he had been trying to break for some time.
Walking around his apartment he passes the bedroom as he reaches down to stroke his cock, hard as sin and not because of the cold. Books lay about the bathroom floor, he really needs either a maid or a bookrack in there.
Now he just passed his bedroom, but he woke from his bed. That’s only a half-truth; his bed is actually a big grey, elephant of a couch that swallows you as you sleep. You see, he can’t sleep on the king-size bed he spent too much money on, not since the divorce.
His bare feet plodded along the tile of the kitchen as he made way to check his email, checking the clock on the lower right hand of the screen just to confirm his internal clock, on the money. Shuffling dried up cans of beer from his desk into the waste basket he made room to see the television from his seat. Iron Monkey was still playing, must have been on repeat or something from the night before. He scratched his growing beard and turned to see if had gotten any email the night before. Nothing, no love.
He pushed the keyboard away and walked into the bedroom, to get dressed. An overflow of clothes in the clothesbasket meant that it was time to do laundry and he grumbled about it before grabbing all the things he’d need.
He felt his breath slip away for a moment as he bent down to take the clothes over to the coin laundry that all the tenants of the building share. Retrieving the laundry detergent from his hiding place he looked down and realized he had boxers on still, and his shirt had dried macaroni from the night before. Figuring the odds of anyone else showing up to do laundry this time of morning were slim, he went ahead and started doing his washing.
Hanging on the clothesline (he had no idea what you’d use one for, must be something those fancy shmancy folks use, you know the ones that separate their colors and their whites) was a pair of beige silk and lacey panties. Wondering why women always left them down here, he decided it must be to milk his curiosity. He reached up and touched them to feel the fabric; panties always were a fetish of his. It would be a crime to leave them untouched.
Somewhere in his fantasies, the girl would burst through the door to the laundry room, see him holding the panties and be shocked but turned on by the whole thing. Most likely that wouldn’t be what happened and he quickly left the panties hanging to put his clothes in the washer.
With a heavy sigh, he turns to walk back to his apartment. Reaching for the door he watches it swing open in slow motion. Someone’s opening it from the other side, and the last thing he think of before the door knocks him out is, I hope they don’t realize I wore this dirty shirt to bed last night.
Blackness.