Still, it's really hard to get out of bed. Carefully I roll over onto my side and fling one leg until my foot hits the floor. The rest of me just sort of follows after and I shuffle to the kitchen, determined to at least get a cup of coffee into my body. It has magical healing powers, after all.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror as across the floor, and I’m slightly surprised at what I see. Yes, I'm still the same curvy girl, but I swear got handprints on my waist. Is that a hickey on my neck?
Oh my God, I'm dealing with a pack of savages.
A watery goo dribbles out of me as I walk. I have to remember to mop the floor. Wow. I am a mess.
Still, I feel like a queen. I can't even imagine being anything less than this thoroughly wrung out. It's exactly the sort of theatrical exhaustion I imagined it would be. People in movies are always crashing into each other, breathless and desperate, clawing at each other until it looks like they're going to leave marks. Well, here I am, with a long scratch that goes from my left tit down the my right hip. I have no idea when that got there. And I don't regret an inch of it.
I pick up my old-fashioned coffee pot. It’s the stainless steel kind with the bubble on top. I set it on the gas stove and wait with my arms folded, resting my forehead on the counter. How long is this going to take? Long enough to take a quick shower? I hope so.
The water’s too cold, but I jump in anyway, scrubbing vengefully at my skin with the rough, pungent soap. I feel renewed in seconds. Positively baptized.
I slip on a pair of cotton panties and a skirt and T-shirt, knotting my hair high on my head. I notice the coffeepot is no longer making any noise so it must be done. I take it off the burner and pour out a cup. Grabbing it and my guitar, I head to the porch for a little solitary enjoyment of the morning.
The grass is still wet. I love to see the way the sunlight catches on the dew drops. There is a stripe across the small, weedy gardens where some animal must have run through just now. I should get to those little gardens, make something out of them. I realize it's getting late in the season, but I can at least prepare it for next spring, right? Get it all organized.
Huh. Sounds like I’m planning on staying. That’s a bit of a surprise.
Coffee invigorates me little by little and I tinker with the guitar, not really committing to a melody or song. Just playing around, plucking out notes. I stay on the low strings, trying maybe to harmonize with this late summer morning, this peaceful porch scene.
I could get used to this. Definitely.
It's strange how welcoming they have been. Not even a moment of real mistrust, just good-natured willingness. Even though they sometimes feel like a wolfpack, they really are like a sack of puppies, I realize. I feel like I have wandered into a den of golden retrievers or something, and have set all the tails to wagging. Yeah, it’s like that. That kind of loyalty, that kind of true welcome.
My guitar warms in my hands and I find myself drifting automatically toward a song. Nothing in particular, just a melody that obeys the rules of songs. Key of G. Something with simple quarter notes, something sounding like a folk tune.
I play for little while, catch myself humming, then hear something else. I stop, and the sound continues.
“Hello?”
To my surprise, Hank walks over for around the house. He offers me a sheepish grin.
“Were you whistling?” I ask, giving him a curious smile.
His boots are heavy on the porch as he climbs the steps.
“That I was. I didn't know you play guitar.”
“Well, I didn't know you whistle,” I counter.
“We all do a little something,” he answers.
“A little something?” I repeat, my fingers absentmindedly still plucking out the melody.
“Yeah, you know… Tim and Tom both play guitar. Charlie plays the cello or sometimes bass guitar. Stan plays piano.”
My eyebrows go up. “Wait, are you kidding me? Seriously?”
He crosses his arms and leans against the porch post, tipping his head to the side.
“No. Do I sound like I’m kidding? Is that funny or something?”
I shrug, not knowing what to do.
“No it, it's just that… Well, I don't know. It's just too perfect, you know what I mean? Like, are you guys for real?”
He laughs, taking his ballcap off and rubbing at his forehead.