Rolling My Eyes

"The Frenchie is back at it," Claudia yells at me from somewhere in the house. My eyes snap open and I sigh. No gentle prods or snuggles ever from that woman. I hate how she wakes me up. "It's my day off, Claudia," I yell back in a cracked and whining voice. I just wanted to sleep in. "I know," she trumpets back, "but you would be a lot more annoyed to be waking up to him in a few minutes here. Am I right about that?" Displeasure seeps into my belly. Claudia is always right about everything. I let out a few incoherent grumbles and give my balding head a good morning scratch, before stretching myself out of bed. She hears the creak of the mattress, my feet thump to the floor. "I'll put on the eggs," she is yelling again, this time I know she is at the bottom of the stairs. "I have another hour before I have to be out of here." I don't want eggs. I don't want to be awake. I splash aftershave on my unshaven face...

It's just a phase, the Moon says to her, when she tells him she can't sleep. Up again, at 6 a.m., tossing and turning through fitful dreams. The sort of dreams that say, You can still have this, if you want this. Weeks of them again now. They are not unpleasant, especially if she can wake herself up fast when she realises where she is. Before she sees his face. She has taken to arming herself with protection. She conjures up her older brother's face and he brings along his wife. They stand beside her and help wake her up. "But if you don't want to," her brother says, leaves the offer on the plate, "I can kill him instead." But I disagree. He doesn't want to die. And that's such a shame. It is the end of winter now. It holds on like the cat who doesn't want to be picked up. The hateful sort of cat; the kind who would spit at you instead of nuzzle. And that makes it hard. Not to want This. She has said nothing to him, that she hasn't...