morning head: Night-blind.

Tip-toeing across creaky floor, night-blind. Trying to still clinking of ice cubes in glass of water. Careful not kick anything in the dark, especially the bed. Desperate to avoid waking the kid.

Approximately seven and a half minutes since his last bout of weening-rage.

He is somewhere on the bed, breath rhythmic, in sync with his mother’s.

Fumbling out of t-shirt, pants.
Shapes resolve themselves, darkness receding. Kid is there. On my side. Spread-eagled. Sideways.
Fumbling back into t-shirt, pants. Top-toeing across creaky floor.
Couch. Doghouse.