I Sit Awake When June Stops

June just ended, and now it's July.  I am awake. It's dark outside, very quiet. Inside, the house is making its contented sounds:  A ticking clock, whirring refrigerator, a fly randomly crashing into the window pane with a quiet "tock." Fingertips on the keyboard are soft pats and clicks, contact of skin on plastic. My foot brushes the floor as I shift my weight on my chair. July is hushed so far, sidling in, awaiting its cue.

It seems the stage is set now that I'm aware of all these little things, but what's going to happen? My mind begins to wander...

Wouldn't it be strange if everything just collapsed like a soap bubble and disappeared? Only a little splash left behind? Or if a superhero flew through the window, smashing the glass, rolling onto the floor and then springing to his feet ready to save my life? The glass would turn to water drops and then diamonds everywhere. Conveniently. Glass shards are too much. Some other meander could accommodate them, not this one.

I wander further...

It might be possible that everything becomes edible: the walls caramel and the curtains crispy. Or that the lamps have voices and tell great stories while the chairs chuckle at the punchlines. The sofa sighs and stretches, reaching for its glass of brandy. I like the squeak of leather, so I'd add that in. It's clubby and rich with detail. Then, the doorknob turns and all is quiet again. Anticipation of something, but what? Let's see...

This is where stories start, you know. In the middle of the night when the town is quiet as one month stops and another starts. Between the lines of ordinary life.