Cuddle Quarter
Monday did
what Mondays do.
First grooming for Orca.
Goodbye,
puppy eye crusties.
Then back to 325 Paces,
where Lily rolled in,
Orca's pal for the week,
while her momma chased beach time
down Panama City way.
By evening,
you were the question mark.
Not feeling so hot.
All day.
The kind of text
that makes a whole plan
wobble on its little legs.
I thought maybe
the night was done
before it got to be a night.
Then tip-off got close.
Knicks and Spurs.
Game three.
New York up two
after stealing both
in San Antonio.
And there you were,
somehow,
still you.
“Should I bring Coal?”
Absolutely.
Bring Coal.
Bring yourself.
Bring whatever version of Monday
can still make it
through this rain.
Because the patio was perfect.
Light crowd.
Wet air.
All-day rain
doing that soft little miracle
other people call weather
but I call: magic sky water.
Mojave kid.
Vallarta years.
I still can’t get enough
of the thing
I spent so long
wishing the sky would do.
We watched the first half
from Irby’s patio
with all the pups
tucked into the edges
of the game.
Then Taco Bell to the door.
The walk across to 325,
food,
couch,
dogs.
Then apparently
basketball happened
somewhere in the room.
I know this
because you stayed awake
like a professional
and woke me
one minute from the final whistle.
Spurs pulled it off.
Clawed one back.
Made it look
like a competition again.
Good.
And after all that,
after the rain,
after the pups,
after the Taco Bell,
after the quarter I absolutely didn’t witness…
you left the way you always do.
Clean.
Easy.
One quick hug
that somehow
doesn’t make a production
of being exactly what I needed.
Perfect Monday.
Even the part I slept through.
Maybe… especially the part I slept through.
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