Night Owl

He used to stay up late. Feel not at all tired as the clock ticked from 10:59 to 11:00 and from 11:59 to 12:00 and from 12:59 to one. He’d Flick the cable channels half heartedly watching bad weeknight TV. If he was lucky, ultimate fighting or perhaps hbo boxing, “Let’s get ready to ruuuuuummmmbbble!”He would pour himself a large bowl of cereal, sit back, savor the sugary crunchy goodness of carbs, the cold milk. When the fight was over, the victors hand raised by the referee, the fighter interviewed by the ringside reporter, he would make his way to bed. After rinsing his bowl, he would slide his feet along the thin cut hard wood flooring off the dining room that would squeak in protest under his weight, and he would climb the stairs his placing his feet as close to the wall on each stair that would release a small groan as he ascended to the second floor, at the end of the hall he would push the slightly open door further open and the hinges would let out a squealing request for oil. He would undress in the dark. Slide under the sheets. His wife asleep on her back, her breaths falling soft, warm and gentle summer rain.