#somnophilia

As I finish revising my latest draft and close my word processor with an almost satisfied sigh, I turn to glance at the wall clock in my brightly lit office. Just about five in the morning. Well, my editor knows I keep odd hours, and she doesn’t question it. She’ll see my email later, whatever time normal people wake up.

I shrug on the jacket hanging off the back of my chair, fish around in the pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and step out onto the balcony in my slippers. The sun won’t be up for another hour or two, but the sky’s already started to brighten. I blow smoke into the chill spring air and stare down at the city below us—streetlights flickering off, shuttered storefronts, a car passing by here and there.

Eventually, I stub out my cigarette in the ashtray and step back inside. I drape the jacket over the chair, turn off the lights, and head to the kitchen to whip up breakfast. Before I get started, I pull out the little voice recorder from my pants pocket, set it on the counter, and hit the red button. While I cook, I talk to you about how my day went, how my work’s going, how much I love you.

I set a plastic-wrapped plate of food down on the table—scrambled eggs and home fries, just the way you like them—and then step back to the counter to pick up the recorder. My finger moves to stop the recording, but…no. Not quite yet.