A day in the life
I wake up slowly, consciousness coming reluctantly. I open my eyes, and I’m lying on my side with my face burrowed into my soft pillow. My eyelashes whisk against the cotton as I slowly blink, and it sends a shiver down the side of my body. My arm is lying under my head, and I stretch my fingers a little, almost anticipating the sharp tingle of blood returning to them. I feel my limbs reconnecting to the rest of me, and I stretch underneath my sheets. My calves are sore, and I can feel the muscles sullen resistance to change shape. I push my toes down, and force the muscles to stretch out like crackly taffy. I raise my arms and scoot further down the bed, pushing against the headboard with my hands. I love this stretch, the feel of my shoulder blades testing the resilience of my skin between the dense muscles of my back, my arms so tangibly connected to my slowly rotating shoulders, and the slow, cinnamon burn of muscles releasing a nights worth of tension. When I’m done I lie there for a minute, enjoying the sensation of cotton sheets lying lightly over my skin.
I hop out of bed and put on my robe. I shuffle out to the kitchen on my still protesting calves and sore feet (shouldn’t have worn those boots dancing), and lean down to pet the cats. They’re creating an intricate mobius strip around my feet, trying to convince me it’s been far longer than 8 hours since I last fed them. I lean over precariously farther and grab their food off the shelf and pour some into their bowl. They quickly abandon their worship of my feet. I make my slow old lady way over to the stove and put some water on for tea. I go to the bathroom to pee and stare at my face in the mirror for a minute, thinking that the bags under my eyes are telling me I need to be drinking more water. The kettle starts to scream on the stove, and I run over to it and shut it off. I grab a cup off my wall, choosing the heavy pottery one that reminds me of an afternoon spent with my mother at the seashore, exploring antique stores and giant barns full of books and dusty furniture.
Pulling it down and feeling its weight makes me smile, almost able to smell the ocean for a moment. I put a bag of Earl Gray in it, and pour the hot water on it. I set it down to let it steep.
This has always been difficult for me, waiting for the tea to steep long enough.
I fall back into memories as I stand there waiting for it to get to be that perfect color of brown, remembering summer mornings years ago. I’d wake up, go downstairs, and the water on the stove would still be hot. I’d grab a cup from our motley selection, make my tea, and take it out to the porch. My mom and sisters would be sitting out there already, as I was always the last one to get up. I’d set my tea down on the table and go back to get my journal, or whatever book I was reading. By the time I got back the tea would be perfect, and I’d spoon in too much sugar and pour enough milk in to make it caramel colored. And then I’d sit in a rocking chair, cradling my tea, and talk for a bit with the women in my family, reading and writing when I felt like it. We’d sit out there for hours, until the sun made it too hot to be lazy.
I shake myself out of memories and look down at my tea. It’s perfect. I can smell the sharp citrus tang of the bergamot, one of the reasons why Earl Gray is my favorite tea. It reminds of reading about
I spoon in too much sugar, pour in too much milk, and take my tea over to the table by my couch. I walk back to my bedroom and grab my book. My cats see me grab the book and run to the living room. By the time I get back to the couch I have to push two of them out of the way. I sit down and curl my legs under me. The cats do their damndest to displace the book from my hands so I’ll have two available to pet them, but they rarely succeed. I bury my fingers in the silky fur of the oldest, who has right of place in the prime spot on my lap. I can feel her purring already, my fingers registering the feel of her soft vibrations before my ears pick it up. There is something so soothing about petting a cat. It’s a dual hypnosis, and I look down to see her eyes half closed in ecstasy, and her paws just starting to knead my knee. I take my hand from her fur, and she shows her displeasure by unsheathing her claws just the tiniest bit, a delicate and very subtle threat. I ignore it and grab my tea, not wanting to let it get cold. The first sip is always a revelation. Complex, earthy flavor, sweet and slightly bitter, combined with the sensation of heat, almost too much, suffusing my mouth. I swallow, and enjoy the play of muscles as tongue and throat work together. I put the tea down, bury my warmed fingers back in fur, and focus on my book.
Something is missing, and I realize I need to fill the silence with something lovely. I get up, displacing the cats, and grab my laptop. I’m in the mood for something soothing, so I open my media player and choose the Billie Holiday album. I’ve loved the sound of this woman since I was a young teenager. I hit play, and the melancholy strains of Strange Fruit fill my ears. I stand there for a minute, enjoying the sensation of her brown sugar voice melting into my brain. The words don’t even register for the time being, just the pure emotion she’s transmitting through waves of sound. My hips move slightly, involuntarily, and my back sways in counterpoint. I smile, because I love this. I love the intangible control music exerts over me, the way it takes me over and plays my muscles like an instrument. I leave the laptop and go back to the couch, with a smile still on my lips.
The music’s already entered the background of my consciousness, but just for a minute I imagine I’m sashaying towards my couch in a silky wrap, with a cigarillo in one hand and a martini in the other, a knowing gleam in my eye as I perch on the arm and strike a perfect pose for the admiring eyes of a dapper gentleman. Instead, I shoo the cats out of the way again, curl up with my legs under me, grab my book in one hand and my not so hot tea in the other, and prepare to enjoy the rest of my free time.
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