Five Minutes More
In the mornings, when clean yellow sunlight poured in through her windows and ran over every painting and plant and piece of mid-century modern furniture like the yolk of a thousand eggs, he would groan a beastly groan and grope his phone to turn the alarm off.
She would stir next to him, a perfect breakfast burrito, and he would fondle her awake. Then, like a crêpe, he would flip to face away from her and, with a froggy croak, demand the morning ritual that was his right by some divine decree.
”Oh just five more minutes. Give me the spoons.”
And how she loved to indulge him. Even though she knew that it would make him rush. Even though she knew how cross the people from work, gray and nameless with no souls, would be if he were late.
But she could not refuse him the brief, sweet eternity of this lovers’ embrace. It may be trite and cliché to use such words, but they were truly lovers and they truly embraced.
He was many times her size and weight — well, we cannot know what she weighed because ladies don’t reveal such things. He weighed eight gazillion times as much as she. And though he could fit all of her on his face with room to spare, he curled up as tight as rice and was the little spoon. And she embraced him, her unintrusive groin in white cotton panties— always white— firmly in his buttocks and her arms around the great geography of his back.
And he, bearded brute, smiled and mumbled happy incoherencies into the sunlight of the room, and gurgled with joy as she ran her white manicured fingernails— always white — through his lionesque hair. In the happy opium of half-sleep, he would squirm and writhe to crush himself into her breasts. His massive shoulder blades satisfied themselves like hungry angular infants squeezing every drop of pleasure from the moment. And in those moments he felt beautiful and small.
And in those moments she felt like a many-legged spider goddess who had straddled the peaks of the significant mountain ranges of a continent.
Then the five more minutes would be up. And it was her unwanted task to be the cruel executioner of the harsh, inevitable sentence.
”Sweet angel, it’s time to get up.”
What howls and indecipherable curses he would growl and bark, not at her, but at in-general the wickedness of the Laws of Workplace Temporal Dynamics that with unfeeling bureaucratic courtesy stated that the bond between her and him should be broken at such and such an hour.
And for those five minutes she had given him he loved her so that he desired to melt in the warmth of her hold so she could drink him and he could be inside of her.
And as she blinked away the sleep, she gave him the patented Radiant Smile she saved for such occasions: the smile of a porcelain doll rather than a human girl that said, “It’s okay. It’s all okay, honey.”
With that purified extract of 100% real deal reassurance mainlined, he had the strength to lumber out of bed. Like an ogre, wielding an erection like an ogre’s club, he often knocked over the lamp with the burn mark on its shade as he sleepily stumbled past it. And when he got to the sink, he would make the noises of a drowning hippopotamus as he brushed the ivory tusks of his massive mouth, which was covered by the walrus bristles of his mustache. The elephantine trumpet blast of cleansing his nose. The monster’s mating call of clearing what must have been a whale’s worth of ambergris-colored mucous from the intricate crypts of his throat.
And when he emerged from that purging chamber, human, he stood just a few inches taller then she, and they weighed so much the same that one could wear the other’s pants.
And her nails were quite chipped, and her panties were quite gray, and the sunlight was more the color of powdered eggs vomited up. And his limp penis was more of a prematurely born mouse. And the lamp with the burn mark was safe. And he had to go to ‘that place’. And he hated that she could sleep for another hour, and paint all day in her gray panties, which were not white at all. And he had to go to ‘that goddamned place’ with the people who only spoke of the weather and of sports teams and of last year. And he despised himself. And he had these thoughts only because he saw terrible things half-asleep half-awake as of late. He saw visions of bloated and blue bodies with tongues protruding and eyes bulging bumping against all the others who had been sentenced to hang by their neckties until death in a crowded subway car.
And he certainly regretted having those thoughts this morning, and he certainly wished that he had kissed his favorite breakfast burrito goodbye when he left the door of her vomity-egg-lit apartment, which was really quite golden now, in retrospect.
Because now he was certainly bleeding from his head like a harpooned whale, or an orangutan shot in the face. And he was trapped under the twisted steel of the Bankbike he rode to the subway, and he was sure that she would laugh and say that he looked like an animal in a cage at the zoo. But he wondered why they would put something as serpentlike — contorted and glistening red—as him in a cage, which he could just slither through, but couldn’t quite slither through at the moment. And from his cage, he watched a man with a waxed and pointy moustache, which was not remotely as walruslike as his own, tell his left toe, which was in his right nostril, that she had been called (she was number one in his phonebook, first in his favorites, and his last a thousand texts). And he asked the man with the unimpressive moustache, who was dressed as a Victorian-era zookeeper, which everyone knows is the uniform for a representative of God in Brooklyn, if he might live for just another five minutes, just five minutes more.