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Posts Tagged ‘night’

I bought the fancy orange juice at the grocery store today, the one in the glass bottle that isn’t from concentrate.

Last night I woke up in the middle of the night to get my oj fix. Groggy, I reached into the fridge, reached for the glass bottle, and instead chugged down eight ounces of our month old white wine we keep for cooking. And yes, it was eight ounces before my half asleep self realized it wasn’t orange juice.

I shrugged. It’ll help me sleep.

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The Chicago Bears fight song was written in 1941 and is still played after every time the Bears score, even on safeties.

The composers second most remember song, “If I knew you were comin’, I’d a baked a cake.”

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I was telling Ellen that yesterday, I hadn’t eaten all day and I had to run a whole bunch of errands and didn’t have time to stop, and barely had any cash in my wallet and just needed something quick before work. There was a Taco Bell right next to where I work so I ducked inside. The had a plastic thing on the counter where you could donate money to some charity, but if you caught your donation on the little plastic circle, you’d win a free taco, drink, or meal, depending on if you caught a nickel, dime or quarter. I dropped my quarter in, and won myself a taco salad.

Ellen asked me, “Was it good?!”

I said, “No. It tasted like improv acting classes in 7th grade”

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I remember sneaking up to the attic when my parents slept with their door closed. I’d pull the bed out that the couch turned into and would flop, flipping from side to side, a king in his luxurious court, presiding over all of himself.

And then there was the time Philip came in and my flopping stopped. I’d been caught. Even the squirrels who would rustle back and forth on the roof throughout the night, they stopped too. He looked at me and said he was going out, that he wanted someone to know, just in case, he said. And I said to come home soon or Who cares what you do? I don’t remember which.

And I heard him creak down the stairs on all the ones I knew to avoid and felt the summer night creep in through the window as I heard his footsteps outside.

I was barely awake when he came back an hour later, smelling of lake water and the fullness of a lived summer night.

He came to say goodnight, but this time the crickets were louder than his steps. He sat next to me on the bed, dipping me toward his warm wet weight as the mattress creaked.

“I’ll have to show you stars sometime,” he said to me.

Here’s the thing though: I’ve always been much more cautious.

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The courtyard light slipped in through the venetian blinds, now closed for the night, and always kept me up for a few moments longer. We joked that living next to a hospital would be a good thing; “Rainy days,” you said, but someone always seemed to get rushed to emergency when I least needed them to. The sirens jolted me awake just before I slipped to sleep and I watched the red light scream across the ceiling.”

“Goodnight Blake,” I heard that about an hour ago. We are habitually bad at stopping talking, but we do, because these all night chats simply aren’t sustainable.

“Goodnight Veronica,” I said, and then, “Wait, what’s your schedule for tomorrow?” and we took off from there. You were nervous about something you had to do. I don’t remember what. I told you that it would be okay, that you always get that stuff done. You said, “We’ll see.”

I should have learned by now to ask what your schedule is for now, right this moment.

So often, those answers are best.

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