'Night is a silent, lonely time,' I wrote the other day for creative writing.
I have grown accustomed to being awake long before light, and walking the empty streets while it is still dark. Apart from the initial seconds it takes to shake off the last, beckoning dregs of sleep, and clamber out of bed, caressed by the cool air, I like to be up at this time.
On Monday I had the stars to accompany me, and a sliver of a moon, reminiscent of that first night with Spud; our first kiss beneath a clear summer sky abundant with stars. Often I wish I could travel back in time two years and relive that first thrilling week with him, when the feel of my hand enclosed in his sent shivers down my spine. Sometimes I think life is a love story composed by God.
When I walk the quiet lamp lit streets, whether to the bus stop or to work, a ginger cat watches out for me, and follows me as far as the corner, which yesterday morning I rounded to find another potential escort awaiting me; black and white with wide green eyes. Night is the one time the main road is desolate, and the songs of waking birds are audible with the absence of the traffic.
Tomorrow I will pump up the air bed in preparation for Spud's visit, a month earlier than we had previously anticipated. Tomorrow night, the silence will be filled with his heavy breathing, and we will hold hands across the expanse of air between our beds. My early start the following day will be more challenging by far!