What’s the purpose in having a blog about your writing if you don’t share some of your work? Thus, “Saturday Morning Shorts” was born. So, gather ’round, my little wildflowers! It’s time for a story! 🙂 I hope you enjoy these flash pieces, and of course, feedback is always welcome.
I woke up to the smell of bacon and the sounds of Jill Scott floating in the air. I sat up in bed, noticed the space beside me empty. The top sheet had come undone, the comforter halfway off the bed. I scowled. I don’t know how many times I’d told that man about knocking the comforter off the bed. I stretched as I got up. I massaged my inner thigh for a moment before making my way out of the room.
And this fool was as naked as the day he was born.
“Be careful, before that bacon grease pops off and scorches one of your best features.” I said.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said as he turned the bacon over. You couldn’t wipe the grin off his face if you tried.
“Hey yourself, “ I said, adjusting my robe. “You’re cooking.”
“That I am,” he said. “I felt so good this morning, I had to.”
“What got into you?” I asked, heading to one of the cabinets to get a few plates. He hadn’t made breakfast in so long, I thought I’d resigned myself to Cinnamon Toast Crunch for Saturday breakfast until the day after infinity.
“It’s not a matter of what got into me, love,” he started, still smiling. “It’s what got on me.”
I could feel the lines crease in my forehead. I stared at him like a puppy, my head cocked to the side.
“Baby, you hear that?” he asked, motioning towards the music playing from his iPod. Jill Scott’s Whatever – the Live in Paris version. “That’s what you did to me. You put it down last night. Got me up at the crack of dawn cooking you breakfast. You want some French toast?”
Now I laughed, because he sounded like Ving Rhames. Still, I was confused as to what got him to start the Saturday breakfast routine back up. “I put what down?”
“Girl, stop playing,” this time he laughed. “I knew there was a beast in there somewhere.”
“Dude,” I finally said. “What are you talking about?”
“You seriously don’t know what I’m talking about?”
“See this face?” I asked pointing at myself. “This is the face of someone who has no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Babe,” he said. “You jumped my bones a few hours ago. If the neighbors didn’t know my name before, they do now.”
He laughed at his own joke and reference to the Trey Songz song about overly loud sex.
I leaned against the wall. Searched my mental space.
“Are you sure you didn’t dream it? We haven’t screwed in about a week.”
“Darling,” he said. “My sac is empty. Trust me, we had sex. And it was the bomb, baby.”
“How do I know you didn’t empty your sac by hand?”
“Since when have I ever had to pull on myself, woman?”
I continued to retrace my steps.
Then it hit me. I gasped and opened the cabinet door by the refrigerator.
The cabinet where we kept all our medicine.
There it was, looking me in the face.
I heard it could happen. The drugs that helped me with my newly diagnosed insomnia had a sleepwalking, sleepeating, and sleeptalking side effect.
Then I finally paid attention to the dull ache between my legs. I thought I’d pulled a muscle.
Maybe I did. Just not the muscle I thought. Because I just sleepscrewed. And the way my body felt, it was damn good, too.
And I don’t have nary a memory of how good it was?
Hell to the no. I need off this stuff, like right now.
“Oh, my God,” I mumbled.
“Yeah, you said that a lot last night,” he chuckled.
© 2013 — Dahlia Savage