I close the screen door behind me, giving Michael the side eye as he leans on the railing, taking another puff, oblivious to my annoyance. I shake my head and turn to work my way back to the kitchen where my own personal crack is beckoning.
He has his morning medicinal needs, and so do I.
Coffee. Strong, black and in large quantities.
Harlow and Logan are sitting at the dinette table eating Lucky Charms, and I wince as they both slurp and chomp with their mouths open, sounding like pigs at a trough. They were both on the back porch passing a green glass bong between them when I walked by to see who was ringing the doorbell at this God-awful hour.
They don’t say anything as I come in. I’ve known them long enough they understand; until I’ve ingested at least two mugs of my morning drug, I’m not big on words. Or human contact.
Or living, for that matter.
I rub my forehead with one hand while I set the invitation on the counter then prep the coffeemaker. I dump in a mixture of my favorite Michigan Cherry and Dark Roast and count the seconds, holding my empty, needy mug under the slow drip until it’s full, then replace it with the glass carafe.
I lean back against the counter, unwilling to move too far from the coffee maker, even though the chomping and slurping sounds from my roommates are about to send me into a homicidal rage.
Then I take the first hot sip and feel it down into my bones, a shred of my humanity returning. Coffee makes everything okay.
“So…” Michael saunters through the kitchen from outside done with his morning smoke, his gray t-shirt not hanging quite low enough to cover the spread opening in his cartoon-print boxers, and I sigh as I avert my gaze.
He opens the cabinet, grabs a cereal bowl, then a spoon, and joins Harlow and Logan in their morning cereal-killing ritual.
Three peas in a poly-pod.
“Who was that dude? Rude to be knocking so early. People be trying to sleep.” Michael adds pouring his cereal.
Harlow gives him a kick under the table. He’s new, but after two months, he should know better than to attempt conversation with me this early.
“Ignore him, Delia,” she says. “I’ll teach him later.”
“Promises, promises.” Michael retorts on a wicked lick of his lips.
She snorts a laugh and I shake my head on a wry smile at their playful banter. Their setup isn’t something I’d want, but it seems to work for them.
“Sooo,” Michael starts clearly not taking the hint looking at me as he speaks. “Who. Is. I mean…was. The. Dude. At. The. Door?” He accentuates each word with his spoon held in the air like he’s ringing a bell.
“Got invited to some Halloween thing,” I manage, hoping a short answer will satisfy him.
No such luck.
He nods, shoving a full spoon of cereal into his mouth. “Cool beans.” He keeps talking, his words garbled by the mouthful of Lucky Charms. “I dig Halloween. Candy that is.” He snorts a laugh, milk dribbling down his chin as he rubs the back of his hand across his lips.
Harlow gives me a sympathetic and curious look, tipping her head toward the front door. “Kinda early for formal wear.”
She’s not pushing, which I appreciate. She knows if there’s something to tell her I’ll find her later and commiserate. Unlike her, I’m not much into group dynamics.
She’s the only one of my roommates that knows much about me honestly. We’ve been roommates for a couple years. We met at the casino, where she was a waitress at the time and we’d both just been evicted from our apartments. Common misery is great for bonding. She’s now bartending at a swanky club on the shinier side of town.
It was only a couple weeks after we met that and rented our first place together she had the unfortunate experience of having to wake me from one of my nightmares. Something I’ve battled since I was around twelve years old.
The dreams are all variations on a theme. Ghosts or demons or shadow figures that seem to be suffocating me. My doctor said it’s probably a buried fear from my asthma. Not being able to breathe, real or imagined, is no fun to say the least. But, my dreams aren’t just dreams. It’s called sleep paralysis and it usually ends up with me screaming and fighting to try to wake up from a dream where I’m stuck. Unsure what is real and what is a nightmare. Sometimes, in my dream, I feel like I wake up only to realize, I’m really not awake and it’s like some horrible fun house where you can’t trust what you think you see or feel.
So, in short, me and sleep have always had a rather contentious relationship.