Fumes
I'm clawing through my clothes drawer in search of that concussive alarm clock. I know its source. It's coming from the tag of a pink tank with spaghetti straps.
All you have to do is squeeze it, squeeze the alarm. From the other room, Adam is skeptical. That's not it, he says. It is it, I say, and I squeeze.
I'm getting furious now, so I snatch up a scissors. I cut out the tiny alarm, but still it bleats on. So I snip it into crumbs, slivers, confetti. Angry now, it slaps our temples with its cries.
Adam shuts off the real alarm clock, which sits in the hallway. I mumble my apologies, my explanations, and then fall back into the muddle of feather comforter and kitty cats.
It's these morning fumes, these deadly eddies of a.m. dreams. No flickering phantasmagorias of nighttime sleep. These morning reveries are high-tech simulations, with no more absurdity than much of what is seen in daytime hours. Pinned just beneath the surface of waking, it's easy to forget whether or not one has the underwater breath.
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