Saturday stubble stuttered over the nap of his Navaho blanket. The rain now playing chimes against the windows had called off his afternoon three-on-three game, and the Knicks were on a west coast roadshow. Nothing required his concentration for hours.
At times lassitude was a tourniquet. Today, it was well-washed cotton over frictionless skin. He hovered in the stratosphere between dozing and directed thought, content to rise or sink on currents of whim. The hand resting over his navel scratched absently, flexed, then fell away.
Outside a gust of wind sent a wet slap against the building. The hiss of tires over asphalt lowered in pitch. He should place an order before the delivery drivers were all stuck in traffic. Instead he rolled in his leather furrow, tucking three fingers into the pleat of each bicep, and settled deeper into repose.
A sudden clamour and shush of footfalls from his hallway tugged his mind towards alertness. Their adagio beat was all wrong, however. They passed his door and decrescendoed into familiar silence. His thoughts snagged like bristles on wool. The thread that bound him to wakefulness began to spool out slowly, and he followed it down the Nautilus shell towards sleep.
warm shoulder dinner soft amber female Scully soaring knuckle sleep