Marina del Luna, Calif.–3:09 a.m., Pamper-Her-Friday:
I’m getting ‘summeritis’ and you’re the source of the contagion, woman.
I’m not sure when exactly it set in but it surfaced in full revelation late last night while I slept and wouldn’t let go of me ’til dawn’s break.
Did you put hands on me–vicariously? I rolled over about 2:57 a.m. and found the second pillow, startlingly, eerily, unruffled, untouched, no head impression or crater, no stray strings of locks adorning the case’s surface as evidence of a woman’s company.
Not only was the underside of the pillow cool, its topside was just as. We know a man, a bachelor, can become lonesome, whether by choice or by happenstance. But what about a pillow?
Can a pillow cry out for warmth (selective warmth), for a woman’s fragrance, for the tenderness of her facial skin that makes its comfort-her job worthwhile? A pillow should earn its money, no?
I kid you not: The pillow looked at my still-half-sleep eyes and I looked back at it and, I swear, it seemed to say, “We’re both lonely, man, and summer’s only a few sunrises and sunsets away . . . whatchu gonna do?”
I rubbed my eyes and brushed aside my pre-dawn imagination. I grabbed the pillow and tucked it about midway between my chest and belly . . . and, as only a creative romance writer can–his untamed mind ever spinning–I entertained the craziest notion: What if they stopped manufacturing pillows–worldwide?
What if people have consumed all the pillows ever made and no more components exist to make anymore, like using up a precious resource–fresh water?–and the planet has no more to give?
Damn, what did the cavewomen and cavemen do, pre-pillow manufacturing?
You know what you’d have to resort to? A man’s chest. Um hum, the perfect pillow substitute.
At 3:04 a.m., having lost the desire for sleep, I peered through my window blind slats to take gaze at the last of spring’s morning dew and a striking crescent moon. The ‘-itis’ had me. Summeritis has taken over.
And you? Has summeritis snuck up on you, woman, instigating a blend of restlessness and romance?
Are you sleeping a little less in anticipation? Has the ‘-itis’ permeated you as it has me? Am I the contagion?
My chest? Your head upon . . . .
My torso? Your legs wrapped around . . . .
I’ve got summeritis, Love. It set in early this morning, pre-dawn.
Pamper the woman . . . like a Summer’s Romance. -Rg2
© 2013 Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2®