The screeching call of the hawk woke me again.
Tossing the pillow off my head, like a hermit crab shedding its too small shell, I push myself out of bed to stand by the open window.
If this heat weren’t so oppressive I’d sleep with it shut to muffle his regular morning racket, but cool temperatures are far off dreams this summer.
Yes, there he is, tearing into one of Gordon’s pigeons. Fifth one this month. I sigh… I’ll be hearing his grievances at breakfast. God, he squawks just like a bird.
Turning towards the room again, I slip on my robe. I find my hands tremor slightly as I wrap and tie it around my waist.
wonder, not for the first time, if I might do
better to drink less. But, alcohol makes Gordon so much easier to bear. Not for the first time, I ask myself if I might do better without Gordon.
With another sigh, I head out of the room, towards the first mimosa of the long, hot day.
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