Encased in the clarity of an erotic dream, I slept soundly into the late hours of morning. East coast time minutes before noon, but body time moments before sunrise. Our flight had arrived two hours behind schedule. Bad weather. After closing down a local bar, we crawled into bed around 6AM Eastern, 1AM island time.

Dreams are often signified by the presence of someone from my past. Deb was there. We went to college together. She once stitched the pee hole closed on her boyfriend’s briefs for an April fool’s gag. She waited for a response for three days…and nuthin’. That taught us a lot about the limited functionality of male undergarments, and the absence of male patience. Uh, anywho Deb was there, but her capacity was limited to ordering pizza. There were three pepperoni, three supreme, three cheese, and one with anchovies. There was a group of us sharing a dinner meeting in what I suppose was someone’s living room. I don’t recall the details, only that the context shifted and suddenly Deb, the others, and all the pizza were gone.

I was stretched out against the Mister on the sofa. I like laying on my side with the pillows at my back and my head against his chest. He usually watches television, while I doze lightly to the sound of his heartbeat. Drowsily, I moved closer to lean against his shoulder. We stare at the TV at an inappropriate commercial for erectile dysfunction. We laugh at the absurdity of it and I move against him to nuzzle his neck, and I could fill the softness of his shirt against my exposed tummy. The touch felt real and tingly. There was a tactile sensitivity seldom present in my dreams. As we kissed, he touched my exposed flesh with his warm hand and I felt breathless until….my temple shattered as if someone had struck me with a wooden mallet.

Mister Hombre’s fucking, or should I say fuckless, cell phone, ruined the moment with the abruptness of a car wreck. He quickly left the bed in search of the offending device. I sat up with a throbbing temple verbally bashing the cabinet contractor who I assumed was calling two hours earlier than requested. I’m pretty certain I didn’t use words as respectable as, cabinet ,or contractor, at the time. I might have called him that goddamn son-of-a bitch. Sorry, Randy!

Now I begin processing the Mister’s voice. He’s definitely not talking to the cabinet man. In my left-hanging, six hours of sleep stupor, I can’t process that the entire world is not completely cognizant of my time zone. The bastards! How can the world not know it’s 6:45 in the morning here. After all, it’s always all about me when I too sleepy to conjugate verbs (a.k.a. as before morning coffee).

I hear the Mister’s voice say,”No you didn’t wake me” at which point a part of me wants to yell, “Liar!”. Next, I hear him say,”yes, she was asleep”. After that, I hear a distinct laugh from the other end of the line. Yes, of course. The Second String Cat Sitter is having trouble getting into the house. I wander into the bathroom, while the Mister clears up a miscommunication.

When the I return to the bed, the Mister notices my disgruntled expression, and asks if I’m feeling okay. I explain the inconsiderate timing of the phone call, and clarify that I am not suffering adverse side effects from consumption. He laughs about the dream, and calls Cat Sitter 2.0 to see if the situation has been resolved. Then he enlightens her that sleep was not only thing she interrupted. She gloats in a manner that only a woman without needs can gloat… I gloat knowing the day stretches ahead of me, and I will not be confined to an office, though I would be late for breakfast.