Into You (Part 10)

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A meteor shower

Into You (Part 10)

Sunlight is seeping around the curtains, washing the wall and ceiling above the valance in pale yellow. I roll over and, in the back of my mind, I register a hazy memory of slapping the alarm when it went off, then darkness again. There's an impression of dream fragments dancing in my consciousness, their ephemeral tethers still trying to pull me back, trying to blossom before my closed eyes.
Blossoms. Jack Frosts that I planted yesterday. Blades of grass under my feet and between my toes. The squelch of something gooey. The blotch on my foot… that leaped at me… that leaped on Arlo…
My eyes flutter open and I'm staring at the clock on my nightstand, sweating. 7:25am. A crazy dream. I've slept in. It's okay, I rationalize to myself. It's a weekend. And there's no hint of a black gooey blob anywhere in my house.
I heft the comforter out of the way and untangle myself from the needy, clinging sheets. Sitting on the edge of the bed, naked, bleary-eyed, I gaze at the instep of my right foot. Definitely no blotch or blob, only my boobs trying to block the view.
I take stock of the day ahead. More gardening, checking on the Jack Frost plants, replanting a fern in a larger hanging pot to prevent it getting rootbound, maybe mow the grass and trim near the fence, and check on both Gerald and Arlo. 'Yup,' I mumble, 'that should be a full day.'
Pivoting forward off my butt and onto my feet, I stand and stretch, bringing my arms over and down to work out the kinks. I use my left hand to scratch the underside of my cheek, then chuckle to think if Gerald knew I did that, he would be appalled. Well, maybe. Then again, he's human, too. I try to imagine him doing the same, and I shudder. 'Oooo-hoo-hoo-hoo…'
I pull back my hair with my fingers as I tilt my head to look at the ceiling. The move allows me to take a deep cleansing breath, heaves my bosom upward, and pops the vertebrae in my lower back. I glance at the door into the bathroom and convince myself I don't need a shower just yet. I'll be getting grubby in the back yard, so it'll wait until afterward.
Scratching my ribs and stretching from side to side as I amble into the kitchen, the idea of a breakfast starts nagging at my stomach. I realize I just piled into bed after the über-cleaning jag last night. No dinner, no snacks, not even anything to drink. I was so topped up with excess adrenaline, I crashed hard when it finally plateaued and I lay down. I don't even remember taking off my clothes or climbing into bed. The images in my head replay scenes of me scrubbing like mad, feeling like I was closing my eyes, then waking up. Very disjointed.
With my tummy grumbling at me to hurry the process along, I start hauling out all the fixings for eggs, bacon, and toast. As I stand with the frying pan in my right hand, hovering over the large burner, I remember this is a bad idea. Frying bacon in the nude—Nope! I still have a couple tiny spots on my belly and hip where the grease spatter marked me for life. Hurt like heck at the time, and I still flinch mentally when I recall making the mistake.
I set the pan on the burner and turn the temperature select knob to halfway up the scale. It'll take a few moments to warm the pan. A pat of butter from a knife goes sliding down the curved side, spreading into the center. This gives me time to put the bacon back in the meat and cheese drawer of the fridge. Once stowed, I return to the stove and break three eggs—instead of two, because the bacon has to bow out this time—and stir in some garlic, pepper, and a smidge of salt. Next into the pan is the diced onion, red pepper slices, and small chunks of ham. As the egg starts to skin over, I put two slices of bread in the toaster and push down the carriage handle. Within moments, the eggs are done, the toast pops up and I butter it, everything goes onto the plate, and I spread some raspberry jam on the toast.
It's a good meal, just the thing to nourish and bolster me after what seems a truly bizarre series of events. I attempt to figure out the mystery of the little ebony entity, but there aren't enough threads to tug on to unravel it. Clearing away the dishes, I decide on what to wear to do the yard work. Once the few items are rinsed and dried, it put all the hardware back in its respective storage.
The choice of attire is usually straightforward, but this morning I find myself second-guessing what it should be. If Gerald comes to chat, I'd prefer to be presentable, yet comfortable. I take down several options from the hangers and lay them on the bed. Added to them are three sets of shorts, one a bit shorter than the other two. I choose it, because it's red, and will pair reasonably well with the pink open collar blouse that's airy and sleeveless. As usual, I skip the undergarments; more to wash, just for a bit of puttering around in the dirt.
It's a quarter after eight, and I know the heat will climb more quickly as the day progresses, so I slip into the outfit and put the other items away. I take time to make the bed, then slip on a pair of rubber sandals on the way out the back door.
It's already warming up. The early morning dew is gone and the day is in full swing as I make my way to the shed. I'm glancing down repeatedly as I walk, as if I might spot another black blob of goo hiding in the long blades of Zoysia.
After rummaging in the shed for a few minutes, I come away with my small hand spade and a large plastic hanging pot partially filled with the extra soil I think will round out the new growth area of the fern. I examine it dangling from the rafters of the pergola on the back porch, then hoist it down to work on it. I remove the fern and its root bundle from the second pot I'd transferred it to, situate it in its new home, and spread the extra soil until it sits evenly. After hanging it back in approximately the same place, I uncoil the hose from the back faucet, turn it on, and water the fern until it's had a good dousing. Then I pull the hose along behind me as I make my way toward the weeping willow. I stop twice to untangle the hose by flipping the kinks out, then step up to yesterday's project.

Flamethrower by DoctorMO
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