Dan Brotzel

SATURDAY
Oh God. Here you go again, hanging over me, invading my sleep with your morning breath. As my eyes flicker open, you linger over me for a long moment, nuzzling my neck and furtively assessing my reaction. I feel your arms tremble.

When you get no response, you slide off with a disgusted grunt. Even though I’m still half-asleep, I sense the guilt-seeking rays emanating from your half-turned back. I roll over and away.

But you just can’t let me be, can you? The pointed buzzing of an electric toothbrush, the pedantic click of a wardrobe door, a coat-hanger’s righteous jangle – your busy-busy faffing is just enough to break my spell. I am conscious, and there’s no escaping it. No escaping you.

Today, I think. Let it be today that I find a way.

‘Come on!’ you say. ‘We should have left by now!’

And I think: Next week.